


Welcome to Baker Street

by Nighttimewords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Action/Adventure, Baker Street, Case Fic, Christmas at 221B Baker Street, Crimes & Criminals, Criminal Masterminds, Deductions, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Fanfiction, Gen, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Police Procedural, Secret Identity, Sherlock Holmes Makes Deductions, Sherlock Holmes on a Case, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 103,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24145090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nighttimewords/pseuds/Nighttimewords
Summary: Sherlock and John are trying to rent out 221 C... getting nowhere.An Italian exchange student is looking for a place to stay: she has nothing left but a new life to build from scratch in London.They are the perfect match: Baker Street is her last resort, and she is literally the only tenant that doesn't run like hell in front of Sherlock's deductions.What an astounding coincidence!But what do we say about coincidence?When Giulia starts living at 221C Baker Street, she dives into a mysterious yet fascinating world of cases, riddles, puzzles, and murders. But when she enters the lives of the Consulting Detective and the Army Doctor, Sherlock Holmes is faced with the most intricate case of all: what is the cryptic story behind this ordinary yet surprisingly clever girl? Can she be trusted? And, more importantly, does the past always come back to exact its vengeance?Set before The Reichenbach Fall (a simpler time).
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. Deduction time

**Brief introduction**

* * *

This is an original story with original cases, featuring the Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and Army Doctor John Watson, together with my original characters. I tried to recreate the atmosphere of the BBC show by writing Sherlockian deductions and dialogues in tune with the content of the TV series.

This fanfiction is set in season 2, approximately between The Hounds of Baskerville and The Reichenbach Fall. I admit that I miss the old days (even if I enjoyed S4).

However, the main reason why I decided to set the story during Season 2 (before the Fall, John's wedding, Eurus, and the destructive _emotional context_ ) is that I needed Sherlock to be the 'cold' sociopath he was at the beginning. So just keep in mind that he still must grow up _emotionally_.

In short, if you want to jump back in time to discover brand new adventures and cases and meet original characters along with the ones you already love, try to flip through the first pages and tell me what you think! Feedbacks (of any kind) would be highly appreciated.

The Game is On. 

* * *

**Chapter 1: Deduction time**

_Do you know what the worst part of a nightmare is? When something clicks in your mind and you suddenly realise that you are in one. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes we have a glimmer of lucidity even in the darkest dream. It might give you the impression of being finally in control... Wrong!_

_When you recognise that you are having a nightmare, it’s the moment where the scary part begins. Now you are trapped. You consciously understand that nothing of what is happening is real; nothing will affect either you or your life. And yet, there is no way out. How do you wake yourself up?_

_When you realise that you are experiencing a nightmare, you try everything to make it stop. No matter how smart you are; in your dreams, you are always a slave of your mind. The nightmare draws you into its narrative; it wants you to keep going – it doesn't let you escape its claws._

In a hotel room, a tormented girl tosses and turns spasmodically in her bed, as her forehead is beaded with cold sweat. She is fast asleep, yet at the same time, in the realm of dreams, she is perfectly sentient and aware of being cornered by a product of her imagination.

_She knows she only has two options to escape her lucid nightmares. The first way is easy: she just has to kill herself; such an act will awaken her. It works every time. However, that is a dangerous game. The mind plays tricks on you, and in the middle of your dream, you start doubting, wondering: how can I be so sure that this is actually a dream? Can I trust my own senses enough to affirm confidently that this isn't real? Or am I taking a step I can't take back?_

_Nightmares are not for the faint-hearted._

_Yet, there is another way: crying out loud – as loud as possible. She has always thought that if she starts shouting loud enough inside her dream, her body will do the same in real life, and her mouth will let out a high-pitched sound, waking her up. It might work. It might... unless, of course, that isn't a nightmare._

The panicked girl jolts awake and sits up in her bed as a yell dies in her throat. _Another nightmare, another cry for help_ , her mind quickly registers.

She falls back and plunges into the pillows, panting heavily. _It'll get better_ , she thinks. _From now on, everything will be alright._

She takes some deep breaths to calm herself down, then tries to focus on her surroundings: an anonymous hotel room. _Where is she again?_

_Upon waking up, if you don't recognise whose bed you are laying in, you likely had quite the eventful night. But beyond some alcohol-induced confusion, normal people don't usually have a hard time remembering precisely in what part of the world they fell asleep the night before. And yet she does, and that's disturbing,_ the girl reflects, sighing, almost arguing with the slowness of her mind. _To be fair to herself, though, her confusion is understandable: she lost count of all the countries she has been to in the past year, wandering from city to city... until now._

This thought sparks a sudden realisation in her, _That's her second day in London, more than a thousand miles away from her home – assuming there is a place in the world she can call home anymore. London, UK: the beginning of her new life._

_Not a great start, after all,_ she considers, staring at the ceiling through a tuft of hazelnut hair. She closes her eyes and mentally summarises her to-do list:

  1. _University Orientation_
  2. _Book shopping_
  3. _Last point: finding accommodation and leaving her nomadic life behind. She had dreamed all her life about the moment she would grow up and leave the nest, fly abroad to go to university, live on her own. But not like this, never like this..._



Her eyes snap open; she is far too busy to start falling in a spiral of gloomy thoughts. _Not today._

She climbs off the bed and paces the small room noticing a note on the floor, by the entrance. _Someone must have slipped it under the door during the night,_ she realises.

She bends down and takes it in her hand. Below a streak of numbers, there is just a couple of lines:

_ As per your instructions, you are on your own now. _

_ Whatever you may need, don't hesitate to contact me on this number. _

_ M. _

She frowns and her eyes linger on that single letter: _M., the man who helped her settle in London and provided her with the means to start over. Now, with that note, he is giving her back the freedom that someone else tried to take away. M.: just one letter, not even the whole name._

She knows almost nothing about him: they have never properly met, only exchanged emails, but she trusts him anyway. _After all, he has kept her alive for the past year. She owes him that chance at a new life._

* * *

The day passes quickly. After the successful accomplishment of the first two points of her list, she decides that it is time to deal with the last, burdensome matter. She wanders around the city examining five different houses with a disheartening result: some are far too expensive, and the potential flatmates in the others... _Out of the question, the most boring and dull people she has ever met. That scavenger hunt is proving to be a complete waste of time._

She sighs disconsolately and looks down at the creased paper she is holding on for dear life. She spreads it in the palm of her hand and goes through all the names she has learnt by heart. Below all the checked houses suggested by the students she has met at the university, earlier today, there is one last address, possibly her last hope: **_Baker Street._**

By the time she arrives in front of the black door with the number 221, it is starting to get dark and cold. She is about to knock when the door bursts open, and a man with a shocked expression on his face rushes out of it, bumping into her. He mumbles something, but when she catches the meaning of his words, he has already disappeared around the corner of the street. She shrugs at the weird scene and goes through the open door, peeping inside, "Good evening! Anybody in?"

A kind lady with a warm smile appears in the darkened corridor, "Hello dear. May I help you?"

"Yes, please, ma'am. I'd like to have some information about renting..." she is cut short in the middle of the sentence by the sound of footsteps coming frantically down the stairs.

"Good heavens, he has no respect!" a corpulent woman complains before marching out the door.

At that moment, a dirty-blond-haired man appears on the landing at the top of the stairs and shouts out, "Wait!", but the woman has already disappeared into the night.

"Oh, John, what has he been doing all day?" the old woman asks him, bringing a hand over her heart like a grandmother who regretfully witnesses her grandchildren's ill manners.

"You know him, Mrs Hudson: just being _himself_ ," the man snorts, emphasising the last word while running a hand through his hair.

"I lost count of all the potential tenants you have interviewed today. Considering the man and the outraged woman that have just run away, how many people has he scared off? Six?" she inquires again looking at the front door just slammed.

"Seven. God help me," he rolls up his eyes before looking down at the confused girl standing in the hall. "Is she the next one?"

"Let's hope she is _the one,_ " Mrs Hudson replies before kindly whispering to the young woman next to her, "I think it's your turn, dear. Go ahead: they're waiting for you."

The girl climbs up the stairs with a puzzled expression on her face and follows the blond-haired man beyond an open door and into a messy living room.

"I believe that proper presentations are in order: I am Doctor John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes," he tries to break the ice, pointing at a man with curly dark hair and piercing eyes sitting silently in a black armchair. He sinks into another armchair across from his friend and nods at an empty seat in front of him. The girl cautiously places down her shopping bag and rucksack and sits quickly.

"Hi, my name is..." she begins before being interrupted by the dark-haired man, "Not interested. I already know everything about you. You are an exchange student who has recently moved to London. You believe that this experience could mark the start of an entirely different life, yet you are afraid of feeling homesick." He does nothing to hide the bored expression painted all over his face.

"Sorry?" the girl asks astonished.

The man glances at her and nods at her body, "You are wearing brand new clothes to help you feel different but worn-out shoes; I suppose you must be sentimentally attached to them. As I said, it all indicates a desire for novelty but a tendency for melancholy. I said that you are an exchange student, but I might as well add that you came here to attend a prestigious university. I recognised the coat of arms on the tag recently stuck on your bag,” he looks down at her possessions abandoned placed at her feet.

She follows his gaze to the sticker attached to her bag. _How did he notice that?_ she thinks, but before she can formulate the question verbally, John raises his eyebrows to Sherlock, " _Exchange_ student?"

"Obviously. There's a flyer with an evocative expression peeping out of the front pocket of the said bag: ' _Welcome to the UK '_,” he reads out loud. “She must have attended the orientation day before coming to the flat. Nevertheless, her foreign accent could have revealed it, as well."

"What foreign accent? I didn't catch that," John objects earning a conceited look from his flatmate.

"Clearly," he breathes out and turns again to face the girl. "As for your nationality, I would say Spanish or Italian. I'm not sure about which one _yet._ After all, you've barely pronounced five words."

She gapes at him and exclaims, "That's impressive!"

"Definitely Italian. A foreign student attending an expensive university but looking for a flat… it means that you highly value your education and are willing to make a sacrifice, yet you don't want to waste money with on-campus facilities, which explains why you're searching for something cheaper. That leads me to another point: you made new friends at university today."

"How..." John doesn't even have time to raise a question because Sherlock pre-empts him, "We can easily presume that she met other students at the university orientation day. It is entirely possible that she desires to acclimatise in a foreign country by meeting new people. I'd be careful if I were you, though: some of them are very trustworthy, but it doesn't apply to everyone you talked to."

"How can you possibly know that?" John looks at him in disbelief.

"I derived it from the name on the shopping bag: it's a bookstore in a small alley, excellent but little known. Only a friendly, helpful Londoner could have given such a piece of advice,” he shrugs.

"What about the untrustworthy ones?" the doctor questions him, sick of always being one step behind.

"Natural deduction. She came to _Baker Street_ looking for cheap accommodation. You should know, Miss, that whoever told you to get here was trying to make a fool of you; this is central London, the rents are very expensive," Sherlock deepens his voice in an intimidating tone.

"Not at 221B," John instantly adds with an encouraging smile. _They can’t possibly afford to let another person flee in terror._

"Technically, we are going to rent out 221 **C** , the room Mrs Hudson - the landlady you met on your way up, refurbished completely after the discovery of Carl Powers's trainers. I suppose you wouldn't mind living in a place where a criminal mastermind planted the shoes of a kid murdered twenty years ago, would you?" he flashes her an ironic smile but doesn't give her time to reply.

She widens her eyes at him but doesn’t speak a word. Yet, he can’t entirely read her expression. _There seems to be more beside the human reaction of horror and visceral fear_ , he realises unexpectedly. _Is that curiosity in her eyes?_

The dark-haired man briefly frowns at her flabbergasted face and waves a hand in the air as if to dispel any unnecessary thought, "Let me go on, I'm almost enjoying this conversation." He meets the eyes of the girl in front of him and grins falsely, "You've recently lost weight; although, you still cross your arms and legs as if you wanted to hide your body. Probably an unconscious leftover of the time you were ashamed of it."

"Sherlock, that's simply a defensive position: it's basic psychology," the dirty-blond man contradicts him.

"Sure, but she's trying to keep control over herself. She is hungry, it's evident: she shot several glances at the coffee table with tea and biscuits, but she didn't ask for them," Sherlock smirks nodding at the tray full of Mrs Hudson’s scones.

"Politeness?" John ventures.

"Rigor," his friend objects. "After every gaze, she looks down: a visible sign of shame. She thinks that she mustn't desire food; she is trying to convince herself that she has to resist. I bet she hasn't eaten much today, probably just some fruit."

"Alright, you're making that up," John bursts out.

Sherlock ignores his flatmate and addresses the girl, "Kiwi, was it?"

She looks dazed at him, "Pardon, what?"

"Your lunch. I recognised the distinctive scent the moment you walked it. You peeled it, and its odour remained on your fingers. However, why eating so little when you've already reached your goal? Fear of gaining weight again, of course. As I said at the beginning, new trousers mean a different size. You cannot let yourself getting fat," he pronounces ignoring every basic rule of tact.

John clears his throat loudly and makes another attempt to put an end to that surreal conversation, "Are we done now?"

"In a moment. You've got a boyfriend."

"A boyfriend?" the doctor inquires confused.

"Well, back in Italy, of course; she has only been in London for a few days. Now, look at her ring: she's playing with it, moving it from one finger to the other. Her feverish activity indicates that she is nervous and needs a familiar object – possibly connected to a pleasant memory, to calm her down. I am not genuinely surprised by her mood, though, since I am the one who is making her uncomfortable,” he gloats. “But let's focus on that piece of jewellery: she brushes her index against the internal surface suggesting that it isn't completely smooth. There must be an engraving of some sort; maybe a name or a date related to someone very close to her. A traditional bright ring with an inscription inside and sentimental attachment to it... _Boyfriend,_ " he infers confidently.

"It seems plausible," John agrees, nodding slightly.

"Can I give it a closer look?" Sherlock asks, leaning toward her and stretching out his hand. She places her ring in his palm without a word. He turns it over in his fingers, then analyses the internal engraving and wrinkles his nose, baffled.

"Giulia," he reads out loud.

"It doesn't sound like a boy's name," John replies biting his lips to prevent himself from smirking: _he got something wrong, there's always something._

"It's not. A girlfriend, maybe?" the detective asks, unexpectedly disoriented.

"I'm afraid you got that wrong, Mr Holmes. Not everything, by the way; that ring does mean a lot to me, and it was, in fact, a gift from a special person. Not a boyfriend nor a girlfriend, though. My _mother_ gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday. As for the inscription, this is **my name**. But how could you know since you weren't interested in listening to it earlier?" she says with a sarcastic smile.

"Checkmate," John giggles at Sherlock who glares at him and retorts, "Fine. Last deduction: you are a volleyball player."

"Volleyball?" John looks surprised that his friend still wants to rub it in.

"Look at her body: toned muscles, so we can deduce that she works out, but to identify the sport, we have to look for clues. Let's jump to her hands: micro-fractures and traumatised fingers. It could have been an accident, but _no_ , those injuries have occurred on separate occasions and have been treated differently. Although, it may suggest other disciplines, such as boxing or martial arts; statistically less likely, but I don't want to leave any margin of error. Let's examine her arms, then. The right bicep is more developed than the left one; it's the dominant arm, meaning she uses it when the action requires considerable strength and effort. Finally, take a look at her shoulders and back; she's sitting up straight, though her joint is slightly out of alignment: she must have suffered from a shoulder dislocation."

John stares intently at her, professionally judging the medical treatment she received over the years. "What's the matter with her back? I can't spot any clear flaws."

"Simply aching. It was evident when she set down her heavy rucksack. Backache is very common among volleyball players," Sherlock explains almost absent-mindedly.

"Fine, but there could be another option," the doctor suggest tentatively.

It takes Sherlock a moment to understand the meaning of those words, then a rather surprised expression breaks the facade of his poker face. "What?"

"Given all the things you've highlighted, volleyball is undoubtedly a reasonable explanation. However, there could be another possible sport, given her developed right arm, the injured shoulder and the backache: tennis."

Sherlock nods pleased, "Good point, John: interesting observation. But no, it's surely volleyball."

"How can you be certain?" he argues annoyed opening his arms in despair.

"The ball on her key tag is unmistakable," he affirms as his tapering fingers point down at the girl's rucksack. John follows his friend's signal and stares at the keychain attached to the zipper: a volleyball is dangling from it.

"That's cheating," he protests, frustrated.

"That's _observing_. Volleyball, then. Not competitive level, though," the dark-haired man shrugs.

"Excuse me?" Giulia bursts out after being x-rayed like a lab rat for several minutes.

Sherlock remains unperturbed, "With all due respect, you are not tall enough to be a pro. Even John could deduce this one."

* * *

There is a moment of silence when John looks hastily at Sherlock, then turns to Giulia with a crestfallen expression. "I am truly sorry for that. This is the part where he plays the role of the mind-reader."

Sherlock tosses his head offended and retorts, "I don't read minds, John; I read details, clues, clothes, and behaviours."

"You read people like books," Giulia points out startled.

"Yes, I do, and it seems like I've already finished all your pages," Sherlock turns his back to her to look out the window.

"In this case... Thank you for letting me skip presentations: I'm awful at them," she surprisingly comments with a smile.

John snaps his head up, confused. "And _this_ is usually the part where everyone leaves outraged."

She frowns, "Why? Why are people always so scared of the truth?"

Sherlock turns to her again, intrigued by her words. "Good question. I believe that they simply fear a stranger who knows everything about them."

"And what makes you so frightening, Mr Holmes?" she arches a brow at him with a challenging smirk.

"I make people feel exposed," he points out with an edge of contempt for the average reaction he usually gets from people. _And yet, she didn't react as everyone else would_ , he notices.

"I guess it depends on the information you bring to light. Some things are better if they stay secret," she murmurs as her voice drops an octave.

At that moment, John tries to join the conversation, "Well then. Your name is Giulia, right?"

She turns to him with a grin, "Correct, and I think there are no more questions left. Your friend has just blurted out an indecent number of personal facts."

"And I made offensive deductions, but you haven't left yet. Why?" he stares intently at her, but she doesn't budge under his inquisitive gaze.

"Before walking into this flat, I bumped into a potential tenant running away from you and barely caught the meaning of his mumbled words: he affirmed that you were mad. Now, I'm just trying to determine if he was right," Giulia holds his gaze tilting her head to the side.

The doctor can't help but chortle, while the detective looks away remarking plainly, "You believe him." It isn't even a question, just a pure statement.

"No, I don't think you are mad. I'd rather say disrespectful of the people around you, unaware of their thoughts and feelings... no, sorry, not unaware, simply _careless_ ,” she rewords it. “I bet you could break someone's heart without even realising it. You aren't cruel, though, just… indifferent," she concludes staring back at him.

He frowns at her observations, "Are you trying to deduce me?"

"Deduce you? Not at all. I lack the ability to do so," she shrugs.

"Just observe, then," his voice resonates deeper as he encourages her to go beyond the surface. _The art of observation is his favourite pastime._

"I **_am_** observing. And I've been listening to you all along. I'd say that your original purpose was to amaze me."

"Nope," he pops the 'p' to express his disappointment. "I just wanted to get rid of you."

Instead of getting offended by the hateful comment, she squints her eyes at him with a playful expression. "Yes, I'm sure. But you couldn't resist showing off, could you?"

"She's good, indeed. I totally agree," John comments with a chuckle.

"I wanted you out of this flat. As I still do, for the record,"Sherlock flares his nostrils: _the conversation might be slightly intriguing for his taste, but she appears way too ordinary in his eyes, anyway. Everyone does._

"That's exactly why you told me all those things: you wanted me to be astonished in front of your high intellect and a bit terrified, if possible," she notes.

He shakes his head, "Useless effort. Amazed people tend to get clingy."

She smirks and corrects him, "Amazed people become _vulnerable_. That's why everyone before me flew away."

"True. Everyone fears vulnerability and uncertainty. Ever wondered why?" Sherlock asks, faking interest. _After all, why would he care? He never experiences doubt._

"Because it feels like being a child in a world of adults. Terrifying, isn't it?" she smiles at him.

"I've never asked one."

She fixes her gaze in his eyes, "Oh, _you_ should know."

He rolls up his eyes and grimaces, "So, that's your idea about me: a child."

"Quite accurate," John confirms, enjoying the banter between them.

"You see the world like nobody else; you do whatever you want, whenever you want, uninterested in what people might think. You say whatever crosses your mind just because you cannot restrain yourself. That's a bit childish, wouldn't you agree?" she teases him.

He cocks a brow at her audacity, "Do you intend to impress me?"

She laughs, "God, no. I've known you barely for ten minutes, but I'm pretty sure you can't be easily impressed. Am I wrong?"

"Probably your finest deduction so far."

"I think I made a mistake before, though. You aren't as everyone thinks," she corrects herself. "You aren't just a show-off. Your performance is not an end in itself; you want to make a point, to prove something."

Sherlock gazes at her, an inscrutable look darts in his eyes. "What," he doesn't even take the trouble of making it sound like a question.

"That you are the smartest person in the room," she declares.

"It's fairly obvious, isn't it? Why should I prove it to others?" he snorts.

"Oh no, not to others. To _yourself_ ," she specifies with a smug smile.

They stare at each other for a couple of seconds, like two gunslingers in the Wild West. At that moment, John chimes in the conversation. "Alright. I think we're good then."

Sherlock goggles at him, "Oh, please, you can't be serious. You think that she is 'suitable', don't you?"

"Sorry, suitable for what?" Giulia asks confused.

"Living here, apparently," Sherlock replies in a bored tone.

"Think, Sherlock; she is smart and clever. She is a student, which means she has her own business to mind. Most importantly, she doesn't seem to be annoyed by you, which is honestly the greatest requirement needed,” John smiles triumphantly.

"I'm sorry, you might want to discuss it together," Giulia intervenes.

Sherlock promptly replies, "Yes."

"No," John talks over him. "No, it won't be necessary. Welcome to Baker Street."


	2. The thrill of the chase

The next day, Giulia goes back to Baker Street to settle every detail about the rent. John greets her with a smile on his lips and helps her with her luggage.

"I didn't know you were ready to move in immediately," he says puffing and blowing under the weight of a heavy bag.

"I didn't unpack. I was staying in a hotel room and wasn't planning to spend there the whole semester," she shrugs casually, but the sincere smile on her face fails to hide her relief. _She has a place to stay now; that's a start._

He leads her to the basement door and turns a key in the lock before handing it over to the girl. "It was pretty late, last night, and I haven't explained to you everything, so here it is: this place is quite small, as you can see," he pronounces throwing open the door of 221C. "To be precise, it isn't even a flat. There's just a bedroom, a bathroom, and this small entrance hall. You will share the kitchen and living room with us, upstairs. Hope it won't be a problem."

She roams around the place with a satisfied grin, "It won't."

"Good... very good,” he clears his throat, ill-at-ease with useless small talk. “I'll let you move in and finally unpack your bags."

He takes a few steps toward the main door, but she calls him back, "John, we didn't really discuss the rent. Yesterday you said it wasn't expensive... what did you mean by that?"

He looks pensive for a second, "Can you cook?"

"Yes, sure."

"And would you mind tidying things up, every now and then, just helping us with shared spaces?" he asks again, as his mind pictures Sherlock’s beakers cluttering the kitchen table cluttered and the gory body parts in the fridge. _Hopefully, she isn’t a very impressionable woman._

She beams at him, unaware, "Not at all. It's fine with me."

"I'm sure we will find an affordable deal, then," he winks at her and leaves. A second later, his head peeps again form the threshold. "Come on up when you're finished. I'll make you a cup of tea."

"Thanks, John,” she whispers as a warm smile lights up her face. She walks to the bedroom, collapses onto the bed, and sighs relieved. _For the first time in forever, she doesn't feel out of place._ _That minuscule room almost smells like a real home._

* * *

Some days later, early in the afternoon, Giulia appears in the living room of 221B wearing her coat and scarf.

"Hanging out with some new friends?" John asks standing up from his armchair and stretching his back.

"I'm going out on my own, actually. I wanna stroll about and discover some new places," she beams at him.

"Didn't you go on a walk yesterday?" he argues.

"Yes, and the day before," she shrugs, "What can I say? I adore wandering around this city."

The doctor shoots her a sceptical look, "London is quite big: are you planning on visiting it all by walking?"

"Maybe, who knows? See you later, guys," she says cheerfully before disappearing down the stairs.

John gives ear to her footsteps, waits until he hears her open the front door, them mutters, "I'm embarrassed to say it out loud, but I still have doubts."

Sherlock, who had silently spaced out, grumbles idly, "I won't explain our latest case again. Ask Lestrade for clarification." He finishes the sentence and considers confused his own words.

John ignores his comment and notes, "I was talking about Giulia."

The detective shoots him a meaningful look, then talks back, “I thought _you_ chose her.”

John holds his gaze, "To be precise, she was the only possible choice since everyone else legged it out of this flat, because of _you_. I was simply pointing out that we don't know her very well... Yet."

"If you don't like her, there's still time to kick her out,” Sherlock points out conversationally, displaying his absolute lack of care for the fate of another human being.

John turns to face him, appalled, "No, Sherlock. I would never go that far. I just meant that she looks _suspicious_ , sometimes."

"Suspicious how?" he frowns at his friend’s allegation. _In his opinion, that girl is utterly ordinary, which, in his clever little world, means ‘irremediably boring’._

John moves close to the window and looks down on the street spotting the girl as she crosses the road, "She often goes on long walks, and God knows where she roams and who she meets".

Sherlock rolls up his eyes, "You could know it, too. Just ask her."

The doctor turns around, a conflicted expression on his face, "I don't want to sound intimidating."

Sherlock smirks, "Believe me, you really wouldn't."

John looks directly into his eyes, "The point is that I am not completely sure we can trust her."

Holmes cocks a brow at him: _there they are, the trust issues John has been suffering from ever since he came home from the war. Oddly enough, though, trust was never an issue between the two of them._

"She's not a threat," he reassures him vaguely.

The doctor crosses his arms on his chest, "How would you know?"

"I deduced her," Sherlock replies firmly, almost offended.

John can’t help but throw a sneering look at him, "I'm sorry, but it isn't a certainty."

The detective suddenly raises his head and glares at him. His friend doesn't bat an eyelid and retorts, "Remember Jim Moriarty?"

Sherlock's expression changes immediately after that mention. He remains silent.

"A criminal mastermind, the most dangerous man we've ever met... and the only thing you deduced out of him on your first meeting was his sexual orientation," John argues disapprovingly. Sherlock rides the rap and holds his silence. _There is nothing to add; that was a big misjudgement._

From his place near the window, John observes the girl ambling into the distance, then asks, "Where do you think she's going?"

"Why don't you follow her and find it out by yourself?" his flatmate answers ironically.

John turns around grinning, "Precisely my thoughts."

Sherlock arches a brow. "Are you serious?"

"I just need to check," John tries to justify himself taking his jacket from the coat rack.

"If it makes you feel better..." Holmes sighs.

"You are not coming then?" the doctor asks innocently.

"On a manhunt for our new flatmate?" Sherlock fakes an unconvinced tone, even though there is a hint of curiosity in his deep voice.

John turns around on the threshold with a jaunty smirk, "Have you better things to do?"

Sherlock stares at him and wrinkles his nose, "Is it possible to die of boredom, _doctor_?"

They smile at each other and rush downstairs together. Once out in the street, they go in the same direction as Giulia, trying to spot her in the middle of a crowd of pedestrians.

"There she is. I recognise her coat!" Sherlock exclaims, vaguely excited. _The streets of London are his battlefield._

* * *

The two men start to follow her keeping their distance. It isn't a difficult task after all, and Sherlock gets bored soon.

"Can we go back to the flat now?" the detective whines after a while.

"Why?" John never gets his eyes off the girl.

"Because this is utterly pointless. We've been following her for almost an hour, and she hasn't done anything else but walking, looking around, and taking photos. I see nothing suspicious in it."

A few yards ahead of them, Giulia has to suffocate her curiosity and gather all her strength not to turn around or glance over her shoulder. _She is being followed; she can perceive that. She notices these things: she knows how to prick her ears even in the middle of a crowd to spot the constant gait of people tailing her. She has been listening to the same two pair of footsteps resounding behind her back, at a short distance for almost an hour. She must admit that they are indeed persistent._

She stifles a laugh: _chasing after her is a bizarre way of wasting an afternoon._

"She might plan to go to a specific meeting point," John whispers craning his neck beyond the corner of a building in the city centre.

"Given the route that she has made so far, I highly doubt it," Sherlock snorts.

"What if she's going to meet someone, maybe an enemy of ours?"

"Under the London Eye? How daring of her! It's hardly a secluded place for a secret meeting. Besides, would you really be willing to believe that the whole reason why she became our flatmate in the first place was to plot against us?"

"A spy at 221B... Considering the kind of criminals that we deal with on a daily basis, it wouldn't be that surprising. Please, just a few more miles, then we'll go back home," John announces trying to keep pace with Giulia.

* * *

Two hours later, they finally reach Baker Street while Giulia, who always remained some steps ahead of them, unlocks the front door. Sherlock scowls at John and complains, " _Just a few more miles,_ was it? I hadn't been on such a ridiculous chase since the day we followed that cab."

"It was the day we moved to Baker Street," John recalls as his lips automatically bend in a smile.

"Yes, and I have never been more pleased to come back home." He steps forward, but John gets hold of his arm and whispers, "Wait, we can't enter so soon after her; that could seem fishy."

"For God's sake, John! At this point, I couldn't care less,” his friend asserts exasperated.

"Fifteen minutes, please," John begs.

After what looks like an eternity, they climb up the stairs and step into the living room, completely worn out. Giulia greets them gleefully, "Evening! I thought I'd find you at home when I came back. Were you two on a case?"

"Erm... yes, yes. The usual, you know," John lies absent-mindedly.

"Of course. Murder this time?" she inquires. She has been trying to keep up with their peculiar lifestyle, but she seems more intrigued than scared about it.

The doctor nods silently, avoiding adding unnecessary details. _As his sleuth friend says, only lies are detailed, wrapped stories._

"You look awful: was it so distressing?" the girl presses his with her questions.

"A bit tiring," John murmurs sinking heavily in his armchair.

Giulia walks into the kitchen but re-emerges soon after. "Oh, I almost forgot. Next time we're going to Notting Hill, okay? It was a shame we couldn't walk down there, today."

John raises his head, dazed, " _We_?"

Sherlock sighs and draws one obvious conclusion, "When did you realise that we were following you?"

"Twenty minutes after I left this flat. You aren't too good at tailing people," she replies shaking her head with fake disapproval.

"So, you didn't have to go on such an endless walk!" John howls exhausted.

"I'm glad you got it, in the end. I hadn't planned to wander for so long, but I did want to see how far you could go. Sort of a test. And revenge, of course,” she smirks smugly.

John rubs his sore feet. "I think we owe you an apology. Sorry, we shouldn't have done it."

"You really shouldn't: wasted effort. If you had questions or doubts, you could have just asked me. Luckily, there's still time..." she alludes.

"Can we trust you?" Sherlock intervenes bluntly.

Giulia tilts her head and furrows a brow, "Wrong question."

"Why?"

"Because you don't directly ask that. People might seem trustworthy, but they may let you down as well. I suggest that you look at me and decide it for yourself," she opens her arms and turns in a circle under their inquisitive gaze.

Sherlock stares back at her, "I've made my decision, but I am interested in your opinion, too."

She lowers her arm as a warm smile curves the corner of her lips. "Of course, you can trust me. I am a loyal person. Besides, I wouldn't have any interest in betraying you."

"You’re vengeful, though," John breathes out.

"I am, but my anger blows over in a second." She goes into the kitchen and comes out with a tray full of biscuits. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really," Sherlock mumbles sitting down.

"Okay. I'll leave them here, _just in case,_ " she says placing the tray on the tea table.

John’s eyes light up, "Where did you buy them?"

"You know I didn't; you followed me for miles on end. I baked them myself the moment I got home."

Sherlock steals a glance at the food and comments, "Did you add poison?"

Giulia smacks her forehead, "Poison! Here's what was missing from the recipe; I _knew_ I had forgotten something."

"You don't seem to appreciate my humour." Sherlock waits for a moment, then stretches out his hand and takes a biscuit. "I'll have one, anyway. Just to check the taste; I don't want you to poison us."

The doctor smiles and takes a fistful of them, "I'm starving, and I'd rather be poisoned right now." He eats a few morsels and adds, "It wouldn't even be the first time a flatmate of mine tries to drug me, by the way."

Sherlock turns to him and claims, "You mean at Baskerville? It turned out it wasn't a hallucinogenic drug, in the end."

"But you thought it was in the sugar and deliberately put it into my coffee,” the doctor objects vehemently.

"I needed to test my theory, John,” Holmes rolls up his eyes. _When will he let it go?_

"And you chose _me_ as your lab rat?"

"We were in a controlled environment, scientifically safe," Sherlock sighs tiredly.

"You two are impossible," Giulia comments lying down on the couch and observing them fighting.

"Welcome to our world, stranger," Sherlock winks at her.


	3. Last words

One week later, Giulia has definitely settled in Baker Street. She attends lectures every morning, then goes back to the flat and cooks something for her flatmates (basically for John, since Sherlock seems to think that oxygen counts as a nutrient). She studies in the shared living room, which can be either peaceful heaven or a messy, noisy hell, depending on the circumstances.

Sometimes, Sherlock just lies on the couch for hours; he doesn't move or even utters a sound, deeply sunk in his thoughts, lost inside the corridors of his mind palace: _those are the good days_. More often, however, John and Sherlock are busy receiving crowds of clients. Those poor people are forced to sit on a chair between the two armchairs and tell their stories while the two men decide whether to take their cases or not. Sherlock always raises hell; he examines his clients like lab rats, he is rarely satisfied and usually kicks them out unceremoniously. _Those are the usual days_.

Today is a good one, though; Sherlock is lying down with his eyes closed, and John sits thoughtfully in his armchair rubbing his forehead with the back of a pen.

"Why is it always so difficult? I'd like to be able to finish this bloody thing, sooner or later," John grumbles slamming the newspaper on the tea table.

Giulia raises her head from the books, "What's the matter?"

"Just a crossword puzzle. I try to complete this sort of games every day, but they aren't easy at all."

"Can I give it a try?" she asks politely stretching out her hand.

He gazes confused at her, "You think you can beat a native speaker in crosswords in his language?"

"Crosswords are only 20% about language skills and 70% about general knowledge," she replies firmly.

"There's still 10% left."

She smirks, "Intuition."

He hands her the newspaper with a sceptical look.

"Oh, here it is: Greek Titan forced to support the sky on his shoulders. Easy, it's Atlas," she takes the pen from John's hand and writes down the definition.

"There's another blank space," John points out. "Something about astronomy. I don't have a clue..."

"Let's see: the brightest star in the constellation _Lyra_. I thought it was Sirius, also named 'the Dogstar', but it doesn't fit... Got it! V-E-G-A. Vega. Here you are," she gives back the newspaper with a triumphant smile.

"You simply got lucky. I had nearly completed it," John complains disheartened.

"Can't you two be quiet for just one second?" Sherlock loses it all of a sudden and springs to his feet.

Giulia turns to him with a mortified look on her face, "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Too late." He marches out of the room stepping nonchalantly on the small table.

"Don't worry about him: he's just nervous because he can't find a proper case," John sighs grimacing.

"But a thousand clients visited him during the past week," she objects.

The doctor nods and sighs deeply. "Nothing interesting, _in his opinion_. He is still looking for a good murder to come up," he finishes the sentence and frowns at his own words. "It didn't sound good, did it?"

"I've learnt not to ask questions and pretend I didn't hear anything," she shrugs innocently.

" _Baker Street Survival Guide 101_ ," he jokes. "I'll do some shopping. Keep an eye on Sherlock, would you?" he jokes around, but she doesn't fail to catch the hint of seriousness in his tone.

* * *

A few moments after John left, a soft knock on the door precedes the pompous entrance of an elegant man in a waistcoat. The newcomer clears his throat and casually walks into the flat.

"Hello?" Giulia asks raising a brow at his lack of introductions. _Arrogant_ , she instinctively judges him.

He looks down at her and smiles falsely, "Good afternoon. I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes."

"Whoever comes here is. He'll show up in a moment. You can take a seat in the meantime," she points at the interrogation-chair in the middle of the living room, but the man doesn't move.

"Or you could just stand there," she adds, striving to sound polite.

The man takes out a pocket watch, shoots a glance at it and squeezes his lips together in a flat line before raising his eyes on the girl and hissing, "It's rather urgent."

"That's what every client says," she rolls her eyes at the intruder, starting to get annoyed.

"I'm not a client. I am his brother, Mycroft Holmes,” he declares. He is used to seeing everybody flinch at his name.

On the contrary, at that mention, her eyes lit up: _Sherlock's brother... Oh, this day has just become rather interesting._ She has heard many things about him and his involvement in the British Secret Service. _Time to check for herself._

Giulia scrutinises him from head to toe: _impeccably dressed in expensive clothes. He must hold a prestigious position at a high-profile level, then,_ she logically concludes. _This means that he is not a simple agent; he is most definitely a leader in high places of Her Majesty's intelligence._ Her assumption is confirmed when, after a closer look, she determines that he is not carrying any weapons: _not a field agent_.

 _Mycroft Holmes, nice to meet you,_ she mentally greets him.

On the outside, though, her face doesn’t give away anything of her reasoning process; she just furrows her brow, "Would you mind showing me a personal ID?"

Mycroft freezes as if he was hit by lightning, "I beg your pardon?"

"You've just said that you are Sherlock’s brother, but he has never talked about you. It's not that I don't trust your statement, just... Can you provide any proof?" she bats her eyelids at him to emphasise the naivety of her request.

"I don't have to prove to you that I am who I say I am," he affirms imperiously.

"Haughty, scornful, and always carrying an umbrella: yeah, you definitely match Sherlock's description," she smirks nodding at him.

"So, he did tell you about me," he remarks, seemingly outraged.

"I think _complaining_ would be more suitable,” she snorts.

At that moment, Sherlock bursts into the living room. "Hello, Mycroft. I see that you've met Giulia. I'm afraid that I have _deliberately_ omitted to mention that I have one more flatmate now," the younger Holmes simpers at his brother.

Mycroft sighs before shooting a fake smile at his sibling, "Not a problem, brother mine. I knew that anyway."

Sherlock purses his lips, "Of course."

"Needless to say, I strongly oppose this new arrangement," Mycroft declares firmly.

Giulia's offended eyes dart to him, "Excuse me?"

He turns around to face her and calmly replies, "I meant no offence, Miss Giulia. My remark wasn't intended for you. As far as I can establish," he spends a second running his eyes all over her, "you are the kind of woman who could use some peace and tranquillity to focus on taking back the reins of her life. Although, I fear that you haven't the slightest idea of what you have embarked on, by renting this place."

She tilts her head sitting back in her chair and relaxing her shoulders, "Are you concerned about my safety?"

"About your sanity," he corrects her.

A hint of a smile curves her lips. "That's cute."

He looks almost horrified by her choice of adjective, "What is?"

"That you think I'm sane," she flashes him a crooked smile, and he sighs. _He cannot help but admit that her sharp character is the perfect match for his brother's house, but that is part of the problem: he is afraid that she will soon acclimate to that den of wretched souls. Maybe peace isn't truly what she is looking for, after all._

Sherlock eagerly chimes in, "And that's enough small talk for a lifetime. To what do I owe the unpleasantness of this visit, Mycroft?"

"Business," his brother quickly jumps to the relevant matter.

"What a relief! I was afraid you were attempting to transform our blood connection into a real brotherhood,” Sherlock lampoons him while serving himself a cup of tea. He purposefully avoids offering one to his unwanted guest.

"Between us? Not a chance, brother mine. But I need your expertise _,"_ the elder Holmes hesitates on the last word, pretending to examine the tip of his umbrella.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, "I'm busy. I'm always busy for you. You know the way out," he gestures eloquently towards the door, but Mycroft only moves closer to him.

"I'm here to give you a case. I thought you'd be pleased,” he stares into his eyes, a stern expression on his face.

The detective arches a brow at him, "With what, your exploitation? No, thanks."

"You don't even know what it is about," the eldest rebuts, furious at his brother’s stubbornness.

Sherlock smirks pleased; _he is succeeding in getting on his nerves, and that is the only pleasant thing of his conversations with Mycroft_. Then he replies, "Let me guess: a matter of national importance?"

"International," his brother clarifies as his voice drops an octave.

The detective shrugs, "Still not interested. Have a nice day."

Mycroft flares his nostrils at him and takes one more step forward. "Sherlock..." he exhorts him in a vexed tone.

"Are you going to beg me?" his brother interrupts him.

"Certainly not!” the eldest almost shouts sticking the point of the umbrella on the carpet. 

"In this case, thank you for dropping by. Hope it won't happen again. Goodbye, _brother dear,"_ Sherlock stands by the door and keeps it open, hinting at the stairs.

Mycroft approaches him and simpers, "Brother mine, we'll keep in touch."

"I don't think so," Sherlock replies and slams the door.

Giulia looks at him in despair. "You weren't very kind."

He shakes his head, "He is my brother; I don't have to."

"He could have something worthy of your time,” she suggests politely.

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone starts ringing. "I doubt it, but _this man_ might." He places the device near his ear. "Tell me this is a good one," he answers the phone without even greeting the caller.

"Look, Sherlock..." a hoarse voice speaks on the other side.

"Murder?" the detective immediately cuts him short, getting straight to the point.

"Suicide,” the voice states, sounding weary.

"What happened? Jump off a bridge? Gun to the temple?" Sherlock lists, showing a total lack of tact.

"Poison,” the man on the phone specifies.

Sherlock sighs disappointed, "Dull."

"I think you could find it interesting, though. And I need your help," the raspy voice groans. It is quite obvious that he has to deal with this kind of conversations rather often, and it is also clear that he can barely stand Sherlock's childish attitude towards death.

Sherlock’s eyes sparkle for an instant. "Where?"

"Fifteen minutes away from your house. I'll text you the details,” the man replies quickly as a hint of hope echoes in his exhausted tone.

"It'd better be good,” Sherlock rebuts, checking his watch.

A deep sigh resounds through the speaker before the hoarse voice pronounces, "You've never seen anything like that, that's sure."

Sherlock hangs up and wears his coat.

"Was it a client?" Giulia inquires hopefully.

"Better. It was Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. When he and his team are in the dark about a case, they consult me. That's why I invented the unique job of _Consulting Detective_ ," he cannot hold back a smug grin.

"And did he have good news for you?" she presses him while her brain is still registering that piece of information; _Did he truly just receive a phone call from the police inviting him over to a crime scene?_

"Excellent: there's been a suicide!" Sherlock exclaims rubbing his hands in anticipation.

"I thought your speciality was murders and kidnappings,” she furrows a brow at him.

"There's probably more to it. There must be something wrong about this death," he reasons, tying his blue scarf around his marmoreal neck.

"Bye. Have fun!" she waves at him.

"I will," he affirms before disappearing down the stairs.

* * *

As Sherlock hails a cab, he receives a text from D.I. Lestrade with an address. He opens an image attachment to discover a missing person report. He studies it attentively.

 **_NAME_ ** _(last/first): Baaral Cathy_

 **_SEX_ ** _: F_  
 **_EYES_ ** _: Brown._  
 **_HAIR_ ** _: Black._  
 **_BLOOD TYPE_ ** _: A-plus_  
 **_FINGERPRINTS AVAILABLE?_ ** _Yes._

At the top right corner of the report, there is a photo, more specifically a freeze-frame from security footage. The resolution of the image is not very clear, but as he enlarges the image, he manages to distinguish the features of her face accurately.

That's all. Just a form full of blank spaces and incomplete information. No details about her date or place of birth; nothing about her race or nationality.

Sherlock takes a moment to analyse those scarce data, then phones the inspector.

"Where are you?" the same raspy voice asks abruptly.

He steals a look out the window, "On my way. Lestrade, listen, where is the sensitive information? Her age, hometown, employment?" he urges his interlocutor.

There is a pause on the other side of the line. "We don't have it.”

Sherlock frowns at the screen of his phone, "What does it mean?"

"That's all we have about her,” Greg Lestrade replies as his tone gives off the impression of dishonourable defeat.

"You are the police! You must have additional sources," the detective retorts. _Most of the time, Scotland Yard is his most difficult client to put up with, and they are supposed to be the very ones in charge._

"Of course, we have. And I checked everywhere, I swear there is nothing else. She's like a ghost... well, she was,” the D.I. clears his throat, ill-at-ease.

"So, how on earth can you know her blood type?" the detective voice booms through the line.

"It was on a medical report from a hospital where she had a check-up two years ago. That's all we managed to dig up,” Lestrade informs diligently.

"What about her disappearance? Who reported her missing?" he submerges his interlocutor in a barrage of questions.

"No idea. Confidentiality policy: we cannot trace the calls," the inspector replies in a weary voice.

The detective starts to lose his temper, "Why the freeze-frame at the top of the report? Were the police keeping an eye on her?"

"Erm, not directly, but I'd prefer not to discuss it on the phone," his voice hesitates and drops to a whisper.

"There will be no need for that," he hangs up precisely when the cab stops in front of a tall building.

"Sherlock!" a tall man with grizzled hair and the same hoarse voice from the phone call waves at him from the doorstep of the building and points at the entrance, "This way."

Sherlock follows him inside, and they climb to the first floor, while the inspector leads the way.

"Have you touched anything?" the consulting detective inquires walking into a tiny flat. He looks around processing every detail. At the centre of the room, the corpse of a young woman lies on a carpet. Sherlock glances at her and immediately recognises the face he has just seen in the freeze-frame attached to the text.

"Nothing at all. My men preserved the scene exactly the way it was when we found the corpse, early this morning,” Greg Lestrade affirms.

He whips around, opening his eyes wide, "Morning? It's five o'clock in the afternoon, now. Why didn't you call me earlier?"

"It didn't seem necessary," the detective inspector shrugs. Sherlock raises his eyebrows with his air of superiority, forcing the policeman to add in a grimace, "It looked like a common suicide, no need for _great experts_." 

The detective rolls up his eyes then frowns, "What changed, then?"

"We got lab results. Quite shocking,” Lestrade scratches his chin, pensively.

"Why? Was she an addict, a haemophiliac?" he presses him, but before the inspector can open his mouth to reply, Sherlock raises a hand in front of his face, "No, don't answer! I need to concentrate.”

He takes some steps forward trying to reconstruct the victim's last moments. “So, she rushed into her home... She didn't just open the front door: she _thrust_ it aside. The door slammed into the wall, and the frame that was hanging here broke into a thousand pieces causing the painting to fall on the floor." While speaking, he squats down by a bunch of ù shards of glass and carefully pulls out a sheet, spreading it in front of him. It looks like a poster representing an entrenched beach, several warships, and an air fleet. The word ' **D-Day** ' stands out in bold characters.

He lets it glide down to the floor again and continues his lucid stream of consciousness, "She ignored the mess, of course; she was running out of time. _She knew she had to die_. Right then, just a few moments before swallowing the poison that would eventually kill her, she left a message."

"A message?" Lestrade gives him a bewildered look.

He straightens up, "A note, to be precise. Now the question is: where are her last words?"

"Sherlock, what are you talking about? There wasn't a note. We didn’t find anything of the sort,” the inspector objects, looking around the place.

"But she must have written something. We can easily deduce that she did. There are traces of ink on the fingers of her right hand; only a fountain pen would leave those marks. And what a coincidence!" he exclaims ironically. "There is a fountain pen in the furthest corner of the room. It must have been easy to throw it there while standing in the middle of the living room." He stands by the lying woman and simulates the scene to let Lestrade get on board with his reasoning process.

"Now look at the desk,” he points to the right side of the room. “The organiser is open at a ripped page. Why is that? Probably because a whole sheet would be too big for her purposes; we can assume that she wrote a few words on a scrap of paper since she needed to leave some piece of information but not in a public way. Conclusion: she hid a small note. The only question left unanswered now is: where is it?"

"It could be anywhere," the D.I. comments massaging his temples in an attempt to relieve the stress of that dreadful investigation.

"Wrong! Not anywhere. She was staying in this exact spot and never moved from here. It's on the body," Sherlock logically concludes, crouching down next to the woman.

The grey-haired man follows his movement with a horrified look, "You're not planning on searching thoroughly a corpse before the medical examiner can conduct the autopsy, are you?"

"No need for a random search, Detective Inspector. One of her shoes is unlaced," he points out as if every clue were as clear as day.

"It untied in the rush, perhaps?" Greg wrinkles his nose.

Sherlock shoots an embittered look at his speculation, "Untied? Look at the other foot: she used to knot laces twice: _she_ undid it,” he states and gently slips her shoe off.

"Why did she do it?" Lestrade asks confused.

"To hide her message," Sherlock pronounces while drawing out a note stashed under her heel. He spreads the creased paper on the inside of his palm and reads it out loud.

_"My dear,_

_Please, forgive me for all the trouble_ _and pain this is most certainly going_ _to cause you._  
 _I wish we had had a normal life, a_ _normal relationship, like anyone else_ _on the face of the earth._  
 _But we were meant for something_ _bigger and this project, that kept us_ _so close, is going to draw us apart_  
 _forever._

_Best of luck, my love._

_I'll be waiting for you on the other_ _side; take your time._

_xx"_


	4. Mission impossible

"Cryptic, way too much," Sherlock mumbles thoughtfully looking down at the note. "She was in a hurry and she only left what seems to be a useless message before taking her own life. And yet she went to a lot of trouble to hide it. But why the rush and those precautions?" His questions echo in the room.

He wanders for a while, pacing the floor. Suddenly he raises his head and opens his eyes wide in realisation, "Oh! Someone was hunting her down! She knew they would have eventually found her, so she came here and wrote those words for a _very specific_ person. It's not a common suicidal note; this one was meant to be extremely personal. And for some reason, she didn't want her chasers to read it." He makes a pause before whispering, "Someone wanted her dead."

Lestrade frowns, "And she preferred to kill herself?"

Sherlock gives him a grim look, "She wasn't afraid of dying, but she feared something worse."

"Worse than death?" the D.I. struggles to follow him.

Holmes stares into his eyes spelling out gravelly, "Torture."

The inspector sighs and tosses his head, "Why would someone torture her?"

"To get information," Sherlock replies immediately as if it was crystal clear. As much as there might be sadistic people on this earth that would torture others for fun, he knows that this wasn’t the case. _She wasn’t randomly attacked in a dark alley by a maniac. She knew someone was coming for her and she knew what thetìy wanted. Most importantly, she was aware of what fate would be waiting for her if she let them put their hands on her._

Lestrade sighs, "Right... and what kind of information?"

"About a terrorist attack. It's obvious, isn't it?" intervenes a nasal voice belonging to a man with short brown hair, who has just entered the room. The man is undoubtedly on forensics, for he is wearing a coverall and a pair of latex gloves.

Sherlock glances at him for a second, and his eyes fill with disdain. "Where did you dig out this _brilliant_ idea, Anderson?" he emphasises the irony of his question.

"From the piece of evidence gathered in this house and from the security footages in nearby stores. Several cameras caught her with a group of men suspected of terroristic affiliations, who were monitored by Scotland Yard," Anderson explains leaning arrogantly against the wall.

"This explains the freeze-frame from security footage in her report,” the detective immediately concludes, shooting a reproachful look at Lestrade for not being more outspoken during their phone call. “Although, the mere fact that she was mingling with the wrong crowd doesn't prove that she was one of them. Terrorists do not commit suicide without causing damages and casualties,” he points at the corpse on the floor, then he affirms confidently, “She was simply on the run. Cathy Baaral was not a terrorist.”

"I don't know that, but I can say that you got something wrong. This woman isn't Cathy Baaral," Lestrade shakes his head staring at the body, as several wrinkles crowd his forehead.

Sherlock looks disoriented at him, then he fishes his phone out of his pocket, opens the photo attached to the text he had received previously, and compares it with the victim's face. "Of course, she is."

The D.I. shakes his head slowly. "This is what I tried to tell you just a few moments ago, but you interrupted me with your _deductions_. Everyone believed so, then we got lab results."

Holmes freezes, "The DNA doesn't match?"

"It partly does. But the fingerprints don't,” the inspector affirms, leaving the detective visibly confused, "I'm not following you. How's it possible?"

Lestrade raises his eyes on him and looks like he is about to announce that the aliens have just invaded Earth. "Because this woman is Cathy Baaral's secret twin."

The unexpected announcement leaves Sherlock in shock: he doesn't stir even an eyelash, he barely breathes.

Anderson intervenes to scientifically explain the situation, "As far as we can get from lab results, it's a case of monozygotic twins, which are genetically nearly identical. The DNA is very similar with just slight differences only detectable through the analysis of single-nucleotide polymorphism, but the police rarely run such an examination digging that deep – which is why we initially thought it was good enough a match. Identical twins, however, do not have the same fingerprints. The contact with different parts of the environment inside the womb produces small variations in the same digital, making them unique." He makes a pause to let him grasp the concept, then he adds, "I think this is all the medical knowledge you might need to believe that we aren't lying."

Sherlock takes a deep breath and protests, "It's never twins."

Lestrade shrugs his shoulders, "Apparently, this time it is."

"How can there be no record about it? _Nobody_ could hide such crucial information..." he stops talking mid-sentence, while a distinct scene comes back to his mind. He shuts his eyes close and suddenly sees his brother standing in his living room again, leaning on his umbrella, trying to hide anguish and concern. He relives their conversation through his memory as the words they exchanged echo in his mind.

_/_

_"I'm here to give you a case..."_ his elder brother had said.

_[...] "National importance?"_

_"International."_

/

Sherlock comes abruptly back to reality as a sudden realisation strikes him. He mutters, "Wait, what poison?"

Lestrade lifts a puzzled look on him, "Sorry?"

"What was the poison that killed her? Give me the lab results!" he yells at the two policemen in the room, and Anderson disappears in the adjacent room, re-emerging a second later with a folder in his hands. He hands it to Sherlock without a word.

The detective skims the report searching for a particular substance in the bloodstream of the victim, then he tilts his head backwards and closes his eyes murmuring, "Mycroft."

The inspector scowls when he catches that name, "What does your brother have to do with this suicide?"

"I have to go." Sherlock almost throws the folder at him and rushes down the stairs until he reaches the ground floor. He takes his phone and makes a call while marching hastily in the street.

"I'm busy, dear brother. Try to call me on another day, or another life," sighs an irritated voice on the other end of the line.

"Mycroft, I think I've just run up against the case you wanted to give me earlier,” the younger Holmes urges him.

His sibling cuts him short, "I can't speak now, Sherlock."

The detective doesn’t comply and keeps pressing him, "I need more information about them. I need to know where she..."

"I said I can't speak, for God's sake!” Mycroft interrupts him. “We've just found a mole in our system. I can't speak on the phone; I can't communicate through telegrams or letters, and I certainly cannot meet you in person right now. Everything is compromised and I must sort it out. You are on your own. Do whatever it takes, but hurry up; we're running out of time," he hangs up right away.

"No, Sherlock, wait!" Lestrade has followed him in the street and reaches him running, in time to enjoy the puzzled expression on his face. "You can't go now. We've barely even started," the inspector puffs.

The detective raises an arm to stop a cab in the street and turns to him to reply, "I'm done here. There's nothing of any importance."

"A dead woman lies dead inside that flat and another one is still missing!" Lestrade objects out loud, nodding at the building behind them.

Sherlock shoots him a withering look. "I can assure you the worst is yet to come."

* * *

** Baker Street **

"That's impossible!" Sherlock affirms bursting into 221B Baker Street some minutes later.

John looks away from the telly and sarcastically exclaims towards Giulia, "Oh, look: he is in a good mood!"

"How could she hide a sister and how could _he_ hide that from _me_?" the detective cries out taking off his coat and dropping it on the floor as if he weren’t standing merely three feet from the coat rack.

Giulia closes her book and glances at John, "Do you think we should ask him who he is talking about?"

"No. Just act natural and let him blow off steam,” the doctor replies as his eyes monitor Sherlock’s every move.

She stands up and grabs Sherlock's coat to hang it on the rack; the movement causes a piece of paper to fall out of a pocket and flit on the ground. Giulia bends over to pick it up and smiles slightly, "Sherlock, you've got a girlfriend and haven't breathed a single word about it?"

"A girlfriend?" the doctor asks dazed, while Sherlock simply stares at her cluelessly.

"Yes, a girl who leaves you messages and calls you _dear_ or _love,"_ she implies with a leer, waving in the air the note that fell off his pocket, then adds, "Only a woman could have such delicate handwriting."

He gazes at her with an indecipherable expression, "Correct. And what else can you infer from that piece of paper?"

She gives a second look at the few lines on the paper, "Oh well, overlooking the content – which looks like a love declaration, I'd say that she had troubles with the pen,” she points at the smudges of ink.

"She was in a hurry," he clarifies.

She nods at that remark and immediately frowns while staring at the note, “In that case, is she a teacher?"

"What?" Sherlock asks, blinking repeatedly.

"Well, maybe not a teacher but surely a grammar Nazi. You said she was in a hurry and yet she took care of the punctuation in an informal note. Who would be so meticulous to put a semicolon and mind about commas if they are out of time? She must have done it as a natural reflex and that's why I presumed it was connected to her job,” she shrugs, afraid of sounding too blunt.

"It might be, actually. Let me examine it," he almost runs to her and snatches the paper from her hands.

She arches a brow at him, "Do you seriously not know what she does for a living?"

" _Did_. And she wasn't my girlfriend, she's just the victim of my new case," he replies absent-mindedly.

Giulia turns pale, lifting a hand over her mouth, "So you mean..."

"Yes, this is her suicidal note. I read it on the crime scene, but couldn't find anything relevant,” the detective squints at the paper.

"Of course, you couldn't. This looks extremely personal and heartfelt; it was probably meant for her boyfriend, or husband, or lover," she suggests.

"Nothing like that. In all probability, it was for her twin sister,” Holmes corrects her without even looking in her direction. 

"Oh, poor girl," she whines. "And why did she kill herself?"

"I wondered the same when I was there, and I finally came up with the solution: she had no choice, she was an undercover agent of the British Secret Service.”

Both the doctor and the girl stare at him open-mouthed but before either one of them has time to articulate a question, Sherlock anticipates their queries, “How did I deduce she was a spy? Easy: she had a secret twin nobody knows anything about, apparently. Only the MI6 would have the means to wipe off all personal records of someone's existence. But there was one more clue: the poison she took doesn't officially exist, or at least, it isn't on the market. It is a new, lethal mixture that the MI6 developed only a few months ago. More an experiment than a real substance, to be precise. Lab analysis conducted by the police listed some of its components in the woman's bloodstream."

"I won't ask how you can possibly know about that poison,” John scowls at him.

Sherlock shrugs, "Not pertinent, right now. Let's move on. Thanks to the ' _emergency pill_ ' the Secret Service provided her with – the one she used to commit suicide, we know that she worked for the intelligence. I know that her twin, Cathy Baaral, and she were part of a terrorist group thanks to the evidence collected by Anderson." He makes a pause and mumbles, "I can't believe I've just said that. Anyway, Scotland Yard was monitoring Cathy's meetings with a terror cell; moreover, they found evidence of plans for a terrorist attack in her flat. Here we are; two twins who work for the Secret Service and meet with a terror cell while at the same time spying on them... the only plausible explanation is that they infiltrated in the group to thwart their plans."

"Alright, but why using a secret twin?" Giulia struggles to follow.

"Since the police had no clue about the twin, we can deduce that all security footage presumably shows always only one person with the likeness of Cathy Baaral. The only reason why they wouldn't participate in the meetings together is that they used to swap places without the terrorists knowing. They needed to be two and absolutely identical to pass for the same person,” Sherlock explains. _This is the first time he states his assumptions on the case out loud; he must admit that he sounds like a crazy conspiracy theorist. Nevertheless, he doesn’t doubt that he is right, and his brother’s involvement only confirmed his hypothesis._

"Swap places? Are you saying that their whole mission was based on their secret family bond?" Giulia keeps asking questions striving to get to the bottom of the story. John for his part keeps silent and moves his eyes from one person to the other as if he was watching a table tennis match.

"In all likelihood. You've read the note she left her sister; she wrote about a **_project_** , and it looks like they were working together on it. If you've been following, it shouldn't be too hard to piece it all together: twin secret agents, alleged terroristic affiliations, some kind of shared project that kept them so close that they became one... It's obvious, isn't it?" he cocks his head at, expectantly.

She nods, before asking again, “But why swapping places every now and then?”

"Because, while one of them was staying with the group, her sister had the time and secrecy to make a report to the MI6: the perfect covert operation. Yet at a certain point, something went wrong. The terrorists must have got suspicious, and eventually, one of the sisters was caught red-handed. She tried to run away and she finally took the poison created by the Secret Service to avoid falling into their hands,” Sherlock concludes the narration of the events.

"And you figured it all out during your ride home?" she gapes at him, astonished.

He shrugs nonchalantly as his phone trills a text alert. He looks down at the screen, grimaces and puts it back.

"It sounds like a spy movie, but I'll take it as a valid explanation. I didn't know secret agents were trained so hard on grammar, though," she notices.

Sherlock stares at her for a second then springs to his feet, "You were right."

John goggles at him and finally speaks, "Can you please say that again?" He shifts his eyes on Giulia and whispers, "I'd never heard something like that from his mouth."

Sherlock's phone receives another text, but he ignores it straight away and strides across the living room, thinking out loud, "Giulia said her writing style could be connected to her job and _it is_. Certainly not her occupation inside the intelligence, but the other one: the front her sister and she used when not in service. They had found an alternative, and if we discover what it was, we can still save the other twin."

"Save her from whom?" the doctor asks bewildered.

"The terrorists, John!” Holmes cries out in exasperation. “They found out the swap trick and they surely know that one of the girls is dead. Now they're looking for the other one."

John sighs, "If they are MI6, why don't you ask Mycroft for help?"

"He can't; he's busy with a mole in the system,” he talks back.

"Apparently, someone played him with his dodge," Giulia comments thoughtfully.

Sherlock's phone signals a new message. Once again, the detective deliberately ignores it and keeps speaking, "Let's think; she was about to die and took the trouble to write her last words _correctly_. She wasn't a teacher, though: too public of a job. She couldn't let her face be easily recognisable or be seen too often. She was on a secret mission, after all. Now, what kind of job would specifically require writing skills?"

He distractedly lays his eyes on the newspaper John had placed on the tea table a few hours before, when completing the crossword puzzle, and his face lights up. "Oh, of course. That's how they used to leak information to the Secret Service: through articles and feature stories. Clever."

He twirls around the room with a satisfied smirk, "John, do some research, quickly! Find the nearest newsroom to this address." He shows him the text he had used to reach the crime scene, in the afternoon.

The doctor immediately powers his computer on, when his phone trills a text alert. He types a reply right when the search is complete. "Got it," he shows the PC screen to his flatmates and reads the address aloud.

"Take your coats, we're heading there." Sherlock’s words sound like an order from a commander.

"Does she come along with us, too?" John points at the girl standing in the middle of the living room.

"I don't see why not. She's just proved to be quite observant," Sherlock replies without a second thought and turns to her, "You aren't busy at the moment, are you?"

She smiles timidly, "Not all. I'm coming with you. Just... why are we going to an editorial office early in the night?"

Sherlock’s lips twitch in a smirk, “Because the twin sister we're looking for might be hiding there. She posed as a journalist."


	5. Keyword

Giulia takes the suicidal note and plunges it in the pocket of her coat before following her flatmates.

"Wait!" she exclaims stopping on the last flight of stairs.

The two men come to a grinding halt at the bottom of the staircase and look up at her. John raises a brow, "Is something wrong?"

"It doesn't make any sense. We're going to a newsroom during its rush hour just because _he_ deduced that she played the part of a journalist when she wasn't on duty as a spy? It could simply be an unfounded conjecture."

Sherlock exhales loudly and turns an icy glare at her. "No, it's a logical consequence. She was working for the MI6 together with her sister; they used to play the same person in the presence of the terrorists, but they also acted alternatively the part of a journalist, since they were both very keen on writing. You were the one to notice that, by analysing the perfect use of grammar in her note; congrats,” he flashes the fakest smile at her, before going on.

“Here’s what we can deduce from that: Cathy Baaral, apparently a promising reporter, must have been hired by an editorial office that never suspected that she wasn't just one person, but she was impersonated by both the real Cathy and her twin. The two of them presumably wrote several articles for the newspaper, and every time their feature stories went to print, the Secret Service was able to extract sensitive data from the text. It was their way of communicating with the intelligence without using any kind of technology that could be bugged by their fellow terrorists," he explains extremely fast.

"So, you're saying that while one of them was staying with the group, the other used her ' _break time from secret agent-work'_ to go to the newsroom and write down the information they had collected?" Giulia strives to piece it all together. She has lived with Sherlock long enough to know that his brain runs at full speed most of the time, and it is almost impossible to keep up with it. Nevertheless, she is determined to understand what is going on.

"Precisely. I thought I had been clear," he rolls up his eyes. "That's why we're going to the nearest newsroom to the flat where the twins lived. They would never wander uselessly around the city, especially considering the risk of being spotted and recognised as two different people. There's no reason why they should have chosen a different place."

"Alright, but why hiding in an editorial office? It's always full of people; everyone goes everywhere!" Giulia protests.

"Maybe she counts exactly on that: too much chaos, nobody pays attention," John suggests.

"Not to mention that the Secret Service knows that they used the job at the newspaper as a covert. Now she has nowhere to turn to, so she might wait there for further instructions or a rescue mission," Sherlock clarifies stealing a nervous look at his watch: _Giulia is so stubborn… Why can't they just leave already? John never asks all those questions._

"But, with a mole in the system, an operation by the MI6 is unlikely, for their hands are tied…" Giulia trails off as an idea slowly worms its way into her mind. " _We_ are her rescue mission, aren't we?"

"Yep. Can we go now?" Sherlock shows signs of impatience.

She doesn’t move but places her hands on her hip, frowning at him, "Why aren't we calling the police?"

"We don't need them,” he replies curtly.

"But they were the ones who phoned you in the first place,” she objects. _She stands by the first impression she had of the detective when they met for the first time: sometimes, he does behave like a child._

"She has a point," John nods approvingly, earning a stern look from Sherlock, who immediately turns around to face the girl, piercing her with a death stare, “Listen, I don't get on too well with the Scotland Yard staff, and if I can avoid collaborating with them, I'll do it willingly."

She finally comes down the last steps and raises a brow, "I thought you worked for them as a consulting detective."

"I do not work _for them_ ,” he spits out through gritted teeth. “I don't work for _anyone_. My job qualification means that the police consult me: it doesn't work the other way round," he declares loudly. With that, he puts his hand on the handle and opens the front door just to find himself face-to-face with Greg Lestrade.

Giulia slips discreetly by Sherlock's side, stands on her tiptoes, and whispers in his ear, "I do hope he didn't hear you."

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock exclaims furiously looking at the D.I. and the officers waiting in a police car pulled up to the kerb, right in front of 221B.

Lestrade gives him an annoyed look and replies with an ironic smile, "Nice to see you, too. Again."

Sherlock forces his way out of the door, giving him a shove and muttering, "I hope this isn't another of your pretended drug busts."

The inspector glowers at his rudeness but retorts serenely, "Not this time. I contacted John."

The detective’s head whips towards his friend, "You? You told him to come?"

The doctor tilts his head guiltily, "It wasn't an official invitation..."

"He simply texted me back. Unlike _you_. Do you know how many times I've tried to communicate with you tonight?" the D.I. interrogates him.

"At least three," Sherlock recalls, mentally counting all the texts he had received (and ignored) in the past fifteen minutes.

"Yeah, and you never answered,” Greg complains.

Sherlock keeps his fiery eyes fixed on John, "Did you really call the police?"

He shrugs, "I simply told him where we were going. You talked about terrorists; it's dangerous, we might need backup."

"Wait, what? I thought you were excluding that the victim could be a terrorist," Lestrade intervenes, dazed.

"Yes, as I'm still doing," Sherlock sighs exasperated. _They are slowing him down without realising that they are on borrowed time_. "That's ridiculous, by the way. This isn't backup; those are guard dogs. Have I been placed under house arrest?"

The inspector takes some steps forward until he is just a few inches from the detective, and barks at him, "Not yet."

"Enough fighting," John chimes in. "There's a woman on the run and a bunch of terrorists are tracking her down while we speak."

The detective nods and turns on his heels, "Well, then. Off we go."

"Sherlock, you can't go on your own. This case concerns the police," Lestrade cries out angrily.

Holmes turns his head to look directly into his eyes, "Far more than that, Inspector. It concerns England, possibly another country. Are 'international relations' your division?"

Greg grimaces but doesn't utter a sound. Sherlock smiles smugly. "As I thought. Evening, gentlemen!" he waves at the policemen in the car and walks in the middle of the road to hail a cab.

"Wait, Sherlock, I'm coming with you!" Lestrade shouts and catches up with him. Before the detective has time to protest, he adds, "I want to understand what's going on, for once. This is my job and I won't allow you to steal it."

"Fine. But we're not going there in a police car,” Sherlock declares as a taxi pulls over next to them.

Greg seems about to explode. "You should stop behaving like a toddler and start reasoning..."

"I'm not having a tantrum," Sherlock interrupts him rolling up his eyes. "A police car with flashing lights would definitely draw attention, making the whole neighbourhood aware of her position. Do you want to have her killed?"

Lestrade furrows a brow, "Who?"

Sherlock shoots him an eloquent look, "The real Cathy Baaral."

After getting in the cab, Lestrade speaks tartly, "Sherlock, I need answers now. Why are we going to a newsroom? What's the story about a terrorist group? And who is this, by the way?" he points at the girl seated next to him.

"I'm Giulia, their new flatmate. Nice to meet you," she smiles shaking his hand.

He looks confused at her, "Oh… I wasn't expecting that, but I suppose this is a conversation for another time. Back to my first question: why are we going to the address John texted me?"

"We need to get to Cathy before they do," Holmes laconically replies.

"They? I'm done guessing," Lestrade breathes out, before adding in a pleading tone, "Sherlock, an explanation, please."

The detective sighs and starts talking a blue streak while quickly explaining his deductions. Five minutes later, he finishes his speech, "Starting from the note the dead twin left her sister, I deduced they used to work alternately for a newspaper. That's where we are going right now."

Greg’s jaw looks like it could fall down at any moment. "So, that note was addressed to her sibling?"

"No, she wrote a love letter for her lover and _romantically_ hid it under her cold, dead foot," he ironically replies. " _Of course_ , it was for her sister – an expert secret agent, the only person who could find it. Besides me,"he adds pridefully.

Lestrade sums up, "Let me understand: we are now heading to the newsroom that the sisters used as a front in hopes of finding either Cathy or some kind of hidden message pointing to her hideout. But how exactly? She's an excellently trained agent and she is hiding from well-trained killers; she could have simply disappeared.”

Sherlock snaps back, "No, you've just said it: she is excellently trained, she knows what to do."

"Then why hasn't she tried to contact the Secret Service yet?" the inspector protests.

"There is a mole in the MI6," Giulia answers promptly. "She can't communicate with them since she couldn't know whether she is speaking with her rescuer or the mole that will get her killed. She cannot risk disclosing vital information on her whereabouts," she clarifies, and Sherlock casts a furtive glance at her: _she is quite perceptive once she has enough information. That is... good, useful,_ he reluctantly admits to himself.

The cab pulls over in front of a modern building, and they get off. Sherlock looks up at the offices, then turns to Greg, "Here is where we must part ways."

"What are you talking about? I came all this way because I want to accomplish it with you,” Lestrade objects.

"No, you came along because you needed answers, and you got them. Now you have better things to do,” Sherlock replies signalling the cabbie to wait.

The inspector frowns, "Better than saving a life?"

"How about saving a thousand?" Sherlock implies.

The D.I. scratches his head, more confused than ever, "I'm not following you."

The detective puts his hands on Greg’s shoulder, forcing him to focus. "Think, inspector: you found all those plans in the dead girl’s apartment, and we now know that a terrorist group killed a suspected traitor of the cell and is chasing after a secret agent of the MI6 who must possess some crucial information. What does it suggest to you?"

Greg flinches when a sudden thought crosses his mind like a shooting star. "Imminent terrorist attack," he articulates distinctly.

"You are in a dazzling form, Lestrade," Sherlock flashes him a crooked smile, then becomes serious again, "Contact Scotland Yard: do everything in your power to protect this city."

The officer stares into his face, trying to read his emotions and possible fears, but he only finds cold determination. He nods briefly and goes back to the cab.

At the last minute, he looks at them and paternally says, "Be careful you three."

* * *

"How are we going to do it? Just entering and saying, _Good evening! Has anyone seen Cathy Baaral_ (assuming that she used that name here) _or her twin sister around, recently?_ " Giulia sarcastically asks.

"I have a better plan," Sherlock pronounces showing them two badges and giving one to John. On the one he kept, there is a familiar name ( _literally_ ): **Mycroft Holmes. THE CABINET OFFICE**. On the badge John is now holding, it is printed: **Gregory Lestrade. SCOTLAND YARD.**

"I'll take my brother's; at least, I can keep my last name,” he states, marching towards the glass door of the editorial office.

John stamps his feet, "Sherlock, we can't do that again. You remember what happened when we broke into Baskerville, don't you?"

He stops and retorts, "We don't have a choice."

Giulia raises her brows, "Sorry to interrupt your little quarrel, but who am I supposed to be?"

"Hold on a second, I should have the appropriate one for you." Sherlock pulls a business card out of the inner pocket of his coat and hands it to her. It is plain and classic, with a female name and a surname written in the middle. There is an emblem at the top right corner: a globe with a sword and a scale. The word below is unmistakable: **INTERPOL**.

"How can you _possibly_ have something like that?" she opens her eyes wide, astounded.

"I have an international reputation," Sherlock shrugs trying to conceal the tiny detail that he pickpocketed an international police officer.

They step in and flash their badges at the front desk. A man in a dark suit welcomes them and checks their credentials.

"Good evening. My name is Mycroft Holmes, from The Cabinet Office. I am joined by a Scotland Yard officer and an agent from the Interpol to make an inspection," Sherlock pronounces formally gesturing at his friends.

The clerk throws a glance at them and replies kindly, "I can see that, sir. May I ask what the problem is?"

Sherlock clears his throat, "Most of the details are classified. Although, I can say that, according to several pending investigations, we need to search this building."

The employee immediately turns pale but tries to keep control of the situation suggesting tactfully, "I understand, sir. Should we set a date?"

Sherlock shakes his head and walks down the hall stifling an arrogant smirk, "It won't be necessary. I think that _right now_ would be lovely."

John catches up with him before reaching the stairs and whispers peevishly, "I'm fairly sure that your brother will kill us or have us deported, after this stunt."

Sherlock mumbles in response, "He wanted me to solve this case, and that's exactly what I intend to do. He'll pass over our theatrical entrance."

* * *

They spread out and start looking everywhere, eagerly hoping to find even the slightest sign of Cathy's presence. They search every office, every corner; they randomly flip through documents, looking for clues but driving all the employees crazy. After twenty minutes of useless research, Giulia gets bored and sinks into an armchair, leafing through a copy of the morning paper. She finds a pencil on a desk and starts solving the crossword puzzle.

A few minutes later, Sherlock notices her and inquires sternly, "What are you doing?"

She doesn’t even lift her eyes from the page and answers in an apathetic tone, "I'm fed up. She is not here. I told you: this is the wrong place to hide."

He flares his nostrils. _She might be right: they haven’t been able to find even the faintest trace of Cathy. He abhors being wrong. Luckily, it happens very rarely._

"You could help out, anyway,” he bemoans.

"I tried; it was boring. _This_ , on the contrary, is very intriguing," she points at the crossword. "I've almost completed it, but I am stuck at this definition. It's about weapons, I think. Would you help me?" she flashes her puppy eyes at him.

"Why don't you ask John? He was a soldier, after all,” the detective replies, uninterested.

"He was an Army doctor," she specifies.

He cocks a brow, "Does it make any difference?"

"Whatever. He isn't within sight. Please," she begs, showing him the paper.

"You're so nagging," he complains but takes the newspaper from her. After all, he would never pass up a chance to show off his massive general knowledge. He reads the definition aloud. " _Short large-bored musket with flared muzzle_. The answer is Blunderbuss _,_ " he states as if it was primary school stuff.

She shoots him an impressed look, "I've never heard of it."

"Just like 70% of the British population, probably," he hands back the paper. "The author of this puzzle must be keen on weapons, though,” he mutters distractedly.

She glances at the name written above the crossword. " _Jumelle Survécue_... strange name. It sounds French to me."

Sherlock freezes and frowns, "What did you say?"

"I've just read the author's name," she indicates it.

He snatches the newspaper and the pencil from her hands. She scowls at his utter lack of manners and looks intently as he notes at the bottom of the page only the letters inside the numbered boxes of the puzzle. When he is done, he opens his eyes wide and holds his breath for a second.

"I know where she is."


	6. Race against time

"I know where she is," Sherlock repeats louder. He brings his fingers up to his temples and screws his eyes shut trying to draw a route on a mental map of London. His eyes snap open as he shouts, "John!"

He rushes down the stairs and lands on the ground floor crying out again, "John, hurry up! We need to go!"

Running along the hall, he almost stumbles against his friend. "Yeah, I couldn't agree more," John replies and shots a side glance at the clerk marching to them. He is flanked by two security guards; the welcoming, friendly look has disappeared from his face.

"These people are not who they say they are," he pronounces pointing an accusing finger at the three of them.

"We showed you our badges: they are authentic _,_ " Sherlock rebuts testily.

"They are, actually; they simply don't belong to you. I have just talked with Scotland Yard, and the real D.I. Lestrade is busy in his office, right now,” the clerk replies accusingly.

"Had you contacted The Cabinet Office, they would have 100% confirmed my story," the detective grumbles irritated, knowing that in such an emergency his brother would play along with his inappropriate (and quite illegal) break-in. "Why must everyone always call Scotland Yard?"

"Look at him: he is so disoriented and panicked," Giulia whispers, nodding at the clerk, then she speaks up, addressing him directly, "How long have you been working here?"

He looks bewildered for an instant, "Six months, but I don't see why it should be relevant."

"Oh, it is. Six months, new clothes, a rewarding job..." she points out turning to Sherlock, "Did you really think that he would put everything at risk and take on the responsibility of calling The Cabinet? I wouldn't get in touch with it even if I were the Prime Minister."

Sherlock raises a brow at her observations and for a fleeting moment an impressed look darts in his eyes.

The clerk yells vexed, "I'm calling the police!"

"No, no, no," Sherlock shakes his head. "I never get in a police car." He suddenly springs forward and leaps to the doorway, immediately followed by his accomplices.

He nimbly leads John and Giulia along streets and alleys running as fast as possible while they look over their shoulders and prick up their ears. When they are sure that no one is following them, they stop at a corner of a darkened road to catch their breath.

"Christ, I told you: it never works when we sneak into off-limits buildings," John bursts out gasping for air.

"Sherlock, what exactly do you know?" Giulia asks breathlessly, thinking back at his epiphany inside the editorial office.

" Everything we need is right here," Sherlock flicks the page of the newspaper he took from the newsroom. "Now we just have to find a cab," he walks in the middle of the street looking in both directions.

"A crossword puzzle? This is not the time for games," John complains visibly irritated.

"This isn't a game, John. This is her hiding place. Her life's at stake. Taxi!" he cries out waving at an approaching car. Both the doctor and the girl look at him with a blank expression.

He glances at their vacant faces and specifies, "The author of the puzzle," as if it was a thorough explanation.

"The French girl?" Giulia asks confused.

"She is not French. That's the point,” the detective replies as the cab pulls over next to them.

"I surrender," John exclaims raising his hands.

"This crossword puzzle was created by Miss Jumelle Survécue, a woman with an impressive knowledge of firearms and weapons. It would seem perfectly normal, except for the fact that this person doesn't exist. This name was completely invented,” Sherlock struggles to keep his friends at the same pace of his lightning brain.

"Is it just a coincidence that it looks like a French word, then?" Giulia inquires.

"Coincidences are fairy tales we tell ourselves when we don't want to see inevitable connections around us. These are indeed French words. It's not a name, though, but a translation,” he explains opening the taxi door and finishing his sentence, " _Jumelle Survécue_ in English means _Surviving Twin_."

The detective gives the driver the address he wrote down at the bottom of the page while unravelling the clue hidden in the puzzle, as John groans, "I can't believe you were playing crosswords while I was looking everywhere and searching a whole building.”

"It was Giulia!" Sherlock childishly protests.

She rolls up her eyes and tries to retrace his deductions, "So, you translated the author's name from French and understood that only Cathy Baaral could have created that game, right?"

"Correct. I thought she could hide inside the editorial office since that was her only connection to the Secret Service, but I was wrong: she is cleverer than that. She avoided the mole and didn't write an article, but she still tried to communicate with the MI6 through the newspaper. Everything became clear when you read that French alias. A crossword puzzle… I should have thought about that sooner,” he comments in a self-loathing tone, resting his back against the seat.

Giulia stares at him and leans her chin on the palm of her head, signalling her eagerness to hear the rest of the explanation. A corner of his mouth twitches in a smirk at her boundless curiosity and stubbornness. “I should have remembered a detail from the crime scene. In the twins' flat, there was a manifest of the D-Day; I noticed it the moment I walked in. There is a fascinating story about that event. Some days before the Normandy landings, _The Daily Telegraph_ published a series of crosswords containing, among their answers, secret codewords for the operation – such as _Neptune_ , _Mulberry_ and _Overlord_. Someone thought it could be an act of espionage, but after interrogating the Telegraph crossword compiler, the entire story was simply considered as a fortuity,” he shrugs.

"But you realised that this time it wasn't just a random case," Giulia murmurs, starting to understand.

"It's fairly easy when you piece everything together: she is a secret agent fond of history and war actions – as it is plainly obvious given the choice of posters in her flat. She needs to reveal her coordinates without letting her enemies know and comes up with a crossword puzzle; the most logical assumption was that she must have hidden in it all the information. A cry for help... but not really in Normandy," he jests.

"How did you find the concealed address in the puzzle?" the girl asks again, determined to get to the bottom of the story.

"I simply used the letters that you had put into the numbered boxes while completing the puzzle: they formed the name of the street. The most important things are always there for all to see, but hardly anyone observes them," he asserts philosophically.

"All very fascinating, but where we are going now exactly?" John intervenes annoyed.

"To a construction site in the south of the city,” the detective answers plainly. He knows that John is a man of action; he cares little about elaborate explanations, especially when his friend’s deductions make him look like an idiot.

"Are you sure this time? Because I'd rather not disguise myself as a labourer," the doctor whines.

The cab makes a sharp turn, and the newspaper glides on Sherlock’s lap, landing on Giulia’s knees. She gets a glimpse of the folded page of the crossword and frowns at it. She realises that in the rush of their escape, she accidentally kept the pencil she was using inside the office. She fishes it from her pocket and starts circling the first letter of every definition, turning paler after each sign. "Sherlock?" she pronounces with trembling voice, "We're heading in the wrong direction."

The taxi driver turns his head to her and replies, "No, Miss. I can assure you this is the shortest way to get to the address you gave me."

Sherlock takes a quick look out of the window and nods, "He's right. We'll get there in ten minutes."

She shakes her head, “I mean that we're going to the wrong part of the city. The main show will be somewhere else."

She slowly shows them the definitions of the puzzle, pointing at the letters that she has just circled and reported at the top of the page. " _The most important things are always there for all to see, but hardly anyone observes them_ , right?" she quotes Sherlock's previous words.

The letters form this writing:

**B O M B / T O N I G H T / A T / P A L E S T I N I A N / M I S S I O N**

* * *

"Dear God, a bomb! We need to warn Lestrade, Scotland Yard, firefighters, every law enforcement agency!" John exclaims frantically. _He would swear to hear alarm bells sounding furiously inside his skull - a remnant of his past in the Army when dealing with bombs was a daily activity._

"Why don't we alert cavalry, too?" Sherlock sarcastically asks typing on his phone.

"This is no time for jokes,” the doctor glowers at him.

"Calm down. I'm informing Lestrade right now; there is nothing more we can do. Moreover, this isn't our priority at the moment,” he affirms.

John jerks his head up, "What do you mean this is _not a priority_? All that matters now is that a bloody bomb is about to explode!"

"Yes, on the other side of the city,” Sherlock specifies, furrowing a brow. “That's the odd thing. I don't understand: why would the terrorists choose the Palestinian mission in the UK? There are several important embassies in London. Why that particular building?"

"Exactly because it is not an embassy," Giulia promptly replies.

"Excuse me?" He shoots her a puzzled look; _it was a rhetorical question. He wasn’t expecting an answer from either fo them._

"What is Cathy's nationality?" she inquires seemingly off-topic.

"No idea. It wasn't in the missing person report," the detective shrugs.

"British," John confidently asserts.

Sherlock raises his brows, "You impress me, John. How can you know?"

"Because while rummaging through documents, at the editorial office, I found the curricula of all of their employees. Cathy's CV was there, too, but it didn't contain significant information. However, I can remember her form and I'm sure she is British."

"You found her CV? Why didn't you say that before?" Holmes grumbles.

"Oh, let me think. Maybe because while I was reading it, a _madman_ shouted my name and then made me rush out of the office and run across the city like a thief. When could I have told you?" he barks.

"It doesn't matter now," Giulia cuts them short. "She's British: this is fundamental. It means that the terrorists used to recruit British citizens: they were looking _specifically_ for them.”

"Why would it be relevant?" John looks confused at her.

"Because they don't want to carry out a simple terrorist attack; they intend to provoke a diplomatic incident, possibly worse,” she states, as fear and concern flash in her eyes.

"But that doesn't justify this choice of target," Sherlock argues.

"I think it does. The situation is delicate: the UK has never acknowledged Palestine as an independent State. An intentional attack accomplished by British citizens (there might be others in the terrorist cell, besides Cathy) could make tensions flare up between these two countries. Since that mission is not officially an embassy, diplomatic relations with Palestine are of a different kind, and a bombing against that target may cause many more casualties than we can imagine. To sum up, international relations between Palestine and the UK would deteriorate in no time and we cannot exclude the possibility of war," she explains extensively.

"How do you know this stuff?" John looks amazed.

"Because I study International Relations at the university, even though you never asked," she grimaces with disapproval.

"We need to stop all that from happening," the doctor affirms.

"Very heroic. Unfortunately, it is not our problem now," Sherlock comments flatly.

The doctor shuffles in his seat to turn to look him dead in the eyes. "Are you kidding me? There will be fatalities, for God's sake. Why do you always act like that? How can you not care? This is typical of you,” he blurts out.

"Why does it still come as a shock to you, then?" the detective glares at him.

"You're right: I shouldn't be startled at all. I wonder why we're still discussing,” he surrenders without taking his eyes off him.

"Because beyond your unflattering opinion of me, you don't seem to understand that we are here for a reason. We need to find Cathy Baraal, and save her life. That's all that matters now,” the detective replies drily.

They exchange a quick glance, putting their discord aside; there is no time for that.

* * *

At that moment, the cab pulls over next to what looks like an abandoned construction site. They quickly hop off and look around. The structure of the unfinished building is squat and sunken, in sharp contrast to the surrounding blocks of flats. There is a small park on the east side of the construction: it constitutes the only dab of colour against the gloomy buildings that rise up into the starry sky.

They walk past beams and blocks of cement scattered everywhere, and John murmurs, "I'll ask again: are you sure, Sherlock?"

He nods silently, strutting towards the entrance.

"Wait, she shouldn't come with us. It might be dangerous," John protests hinting at Giulia.

Sherlock stops and spins around with a sarcastic look, "Sure. Why don't we leave her alone in a dark yard in the middle of the night? Safest place in the world."

Giulia shifts her eyes from one man to the other, "I think we've come too far to start worrying about safety now. I'm in."

As they enter the building, Sherlock whispers, "Keep your eyes peeled. She must be close."

Suddenly, they hear the distinctive click of the safety of a semi-automatic weapon behind them. Nobody moves, but Sherlock perceives the cold pressure of a muzzle against the nape of his neck.

"Any last words before the oblivion?" the shooter asks.

He takes a deep breath and smirks before whispering, "D-Day."


	7. Trapped in the Wolf's Lair

John immediately points his revolver to the attacker in one fluid movement and states, "If you shoot him, I'll make sure you don't live long enough to watch him hit the ground."

"No need for that, John. This floor is filthy, and I'd like to avoid lying on it, as much as possible. Why don't we try to reason, instead?" Sherlock proposes tactfully.

"How did you find me?" the same female voice that pronounced the ultimatum a few seconds before echoes sharper.

"My last words were supposed to be a hint; we deciphered the code hidden in your crossword puzzle, _Miss Baaral,_ " the detective pronounces smugly, lingering on her last name.

She clears her throat uncomfortably and applies more pressure on her weapon held against Sherlock's nape, making him wince. "Very well, you know my name and my hideout. Next questions: why are you here and what do you want from me?"

"We are here to save you," Sherlock calmly answers.

"Do you mind if I don't believe you, sir? With a mole in the system, I cannot grant myself the luxury of trusting anyone," she spits out.

"But I am not _anyone_." He slowly turns around to face her with his hands in the air, "I'm Sherlock Holmes, your boss's brother."

She narrows her eyes at him, "Prove it. I've known Mycroft Holmes for ages, and I've done some research about his past. Tell me some episodes of your childhood that you shared with him," she arches a brow waiting for some evidence of his proclaimed identity. She must admit that the person standing in front of her bears some resemblance to the photos of the notorious detective of Baker Street in the papers that she saw in the papers, and yet, she knows all too well that appearances can be deceiving. She learned not to trust anyone.

Sherlock gazes at her and firmly replies, "If you've been diligent with your research, you probably know that there aren't any. You're bluffing. We never spent time together as kids; he thought I was too childish and slow and preferred to be alone. In fact, he used to ignore me completely," his voice sounds deeper than usual; even though he doesn't show any signs of emotion, a muscle in his cheek twitches imperceptibly at those memories.

Cathy listens carefully and grins, lowering her gun, "Correct. Pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes the younger." She is about to shake his hand when a gunshot echoes down the corridor and a bullet flies just a few inches away from John's head.

"Get down! Get down!" he shouts. Everyone instinctively takes cover. They hear footsteps and commotion in the hall of the building; they can distinguish several voices calling one another.

"They found me," Cathy breathes out, hiding behind a protrusion in the wall.

"Who?" John asks dazed, trying to catch sight of the marksman that failed to kill him.

"The terror cell. How did they..." she stops mid-sentence spinning around and pointing an accusatory finger at them, "You. You basically led them to me. They must have tailed you lately watching your every move."

"And we've brought them right into your lair," Sherlock sighs, cursing their carelessness under his breath.

Cathy gives him a glacial, resolute look and specifies, "Wolf's Lair."

All of a sudden, a hail of bullets inundates the hallway only a few steps away from their refuge.

"Follow me," Cathy orders peremptorily. She slides along the wall and they instantly imitate her, careful to keep their heads down. They peep round the corner to check if the way is clear then sneak into a wide room. Sherlock turns his eyes everywhere to memorise the floor plan.

When a new series of gunshots resounds behind them, Cathy rapidly points at what looks like an information booth next to a row of rusted ticket barriers. They duck under the counter panting for breath. John kneels down in firing position and shoots back. Giulia stares awestruck at him: _he seems a completely different man. Not the charming, caring doctor who reads the paper sipping tea, but the brave soldier prepared to do anything to protect his friends._

"You didn't bring any police officer, did you?" Cathy huffs, handing Sherlock a semi-automatic gun.

The detective removes the safety, takes aim and shoots twice before answering, "Unluckily not. They are all busy at the Palestinian Mission, as we speak."

"You decoded the second message, too?" the agent raises a brow, gaping at him.

" _She_ did," Sherlock nods at Giulia.

Cathy looks at her and smiles slightly, "Well done."

She analyses them. _What an interesting team: the mind on fire, the defensive weapon, and the human reason._ She looks directly into Giulia's eyes trying to find out her boundary line between fear and fortitude. _She would swear she is looking at her sister again_. This thought strikes her and the expression on her face becomes unreadable as she turns to confront the three of them, "Here's the plan: I'm going to lay down some suppression fire to let you escape. Run as fast as possible and just get as far away from here as you can. I'll hold them off."

Sherlock frowns and protests, "No, we're your rescue mission."

"That's very gallant of you, Mr Holmes, but I am afraid that we have very different ideas about rescuing someone," the agent lampoons him.

The terrorists are now crowding in the room, so Cathy quickly leads the group through a service door and along another succession of corridors. When clamour and blasts arise from the far end of the passageway, she comes to a halt at an intersection and looks sternly at them, "You should go now. Run away and try to stay alive, if possible _._ "

John tilts his head, " _If_ possible?"

"What about you?" Giulia asks in a concerned tone. _She doesn't like leaving anyone behind, not even a complete stranger with quite some experience of firearms, apparently._

Cathy averts her gaze, lost in thought, and murmurs, "I need to accomplish one last mission."

"Then we're coming with you. We didn't come to interfere. We are allies," Sherlock puts his foot down.

She snaps out of her meditation and smiles slyly, "I couldn't have said it better. But you need to save yourself while there's still time. You have to trust me, Mr Holmes, and I promise you we'll win the war."

He stares into her determined eyes and nods reluctantly, "Where do we go now?"

Cathy points vaguely ahead of them, "First corridor to the right; then I'm sure that you'll manage to find your way out," she winks at them and swiftly disappears beyond the corner.

They don't waste a second and hurry in the direction indicated. The moment they step in the aisle, two armed men run towards them firing away. Sherlock notices an open door and pushes John and Giulia inside the room, locking the solid door behind him. He places his hands on his knees gasping for air and attempting to focus on the interior of the place. There is not much to see, though, just a small table with city maps disseminated all over it.

 _No windows, no connecting doors, no weapons_ , his brain rapidly registers.

When their chasers start kicking and punching the shut door, Sherlock seems to wake up from a trance. He lifts his eyes on John who groans and clenches his fists before despairingly murmuring, "Wrong turn. We hit a dead end."

* * *

An air of defeat hangs thick in the dust-filled space of the room.

"No way out of here? Have you checked?" Giulia asks as a shiver runs through her body. She isn't claustrophobic, but the hopelessness of their situation is putting a strain on her frightened mind.

John shakes his head despairingly, "Nothing doing. This place is a bunker. As long as we stay here, we are safe; but the moment they succeed in picking the lock... we are dead."

Sherlock's head whips up at his sentence, "What have you just said?"

"You mean, the unceremonious announcement of our imminent death?" Giulia snivels in despair.

"No, his exact words." He closes his eyes recalling John's phrase, "He's just said: _Nothing doing. This place is a bunker_..."

 _Bunker_! The word seems to hover before his eyes while shreds of a previous conversation rush and gather inside his mind.

 _"We are allies",_ he had said to Cathy, to which she had responded with, " _I couldn't have said it better._ "

 _She didn't mean it as 'partners', though,_ Sherlock reflects. In his mind palace, the word slightly changes as a capital letter appears at the beginning of it. _We are THE **A** llies, _he finally understands.

Then, his brain reproduces another expression pronounced earlier by Cathy: "... _we'll win the war."_ Finally, a sudden snapshot of his surroundings dawns on him: _the city maps on the table in the middle of the room, their pattern, the area represented... it isn't London!_

His eyes snap open while he whispers, "This is, in fact, _the_ bunker."

"Yeah, that's what I said. But _this_ is the problem, not the solution," John talks back frowning at Sherlock's entranced face.

The detective bends over the table at the centre of the room, "Cathy must have designed this room to reproduce one very specific place: Adolf's Hitler _Führerbunker_ in Berlin," he affirms confidently.

Giulia and John exchange bewildered looks: _is his brain running low on oxygen?_

Sherlock points at the maps, "Look at these. They don't depict London. You can check roads, squares, monuments, everything, and you'll realise it's always the same city: Berlin."

They lean forward to observe them. "Fine, but I still don't see how this could help us, right now," John remarks.

Sherlock straightens up and goes back to his mind palace to check the plan of the construction site that he strained to memorise while running around. He recalls the movements they have made so far, all the forks and turns they have encountered until that dead end. _He knows exactly in what wing of the building they are right now._

His eyes scan the room and his gaze lands on the floor; he squats down next to a wall and brushes his finger on the ground. "Ash..." he mumbles. "I should have expected this. Oh, it's so clever!" he exclaims springing to his feet. "I knew she was smart: the trick of the crossword puzzle was quite good, but this... this is brilliant."

Suddenly, the terrorists begin to shoot the lock in an attempt to open it.

"Sherlock, come on!" Giulia begs scared to death.

"The Führerbunker was a subterranean bunker in Berlin where Hitler spent his last days and eventually committed suicide," he explains.

"Straight to the point, please," John pleads, listening to the cracking sounds coming from the doorjambs.

"There was an emergency exit in that bunker," Sherlock adds, looking intently at the base of the wall. "As per the Führer's instructions, after their suicides, the corpses of Hitler and Eva Braun were carried up the stairs through the bunker's emergency exit..." he leans both hands against a portion of the wall in front of him as he keeps speaking. "And their bodies were burnt in the..." he presses on the movable partition that had been painted to look like a real wall; it slowly shifts opening outwards.

"... _garden_ ," he finishes as a gust of wind sweeps over them. They are now contemplating the park situated on the east side of the construction site.

A hint of a smile appears on Sherlock's lips. _He was right about their position: he has successfully found his bearings in that labyrinth, after all._

Giulia and John hold their breath at the sight of the trees and the night sky. "We're out," the girl murmurs almost inaudibly.

"Run!" John exhorts them, rushing towards the street.

Sherlock follows them at a short distance, his legs slowed down by the frantic rhythm of his thoughts. _He feels as if he is missing something and he is never wrong. At the sound of the word 'bunker', some sort of intuition clicked in his brain; although, he cannot catch up with it yet._

They stop near a bench, out of breath. "What was that trick down there?" John breathlessly asks him. "You knew there was a secret passage leading to the park?"

"I didn't _know_ it; I observed and deduced it. As I said, she organised that room like the Führerbunker. And since Hitler's dead body was cremated in the Reich Chancellery garden, outside his bunker, I presumed that a pile of ash beside a partition wall couldn't just be the result of poor cleaning. If you remember, she said that we would find our way out, and that's why she led us to that corridor: she _knew_ that we would choose the only door that she had intentionally left open. That room wasn't meant for us, though. I can only guess that she had been preparing this emergency shelter for her twin sister, counting on the fact that her sibling would be able to decipher all the history-related clues that signalled the exit."

"Who would've thought history would save my life, one day?" Giulia lets out a relieved sigh.

"Boy, that young lady is really fond of World War II," John comments shaking his head in disbelief.

"True. She's so keen on warfare that she turned her lair in a bunker just like..." Sherlock stops talking mid-sentence, focusing on the words he has just pronounced. The gears relentlessly turning inside his head come to a sudden halt as the final piece falls into place.

"Wolf's Lair," he exclaims. He shuts his eyes while Cathy's voice echoes in his head: " _I need to accomplish one last mission," she had said._

"What have you mumbled?" John furrows his brow, starting to get annoyed by Sherlock's frequent visits to his mind palace.

"Did you hear what the secret agent said when the terrorists showed up?" Sherlock cracks his eyes open and stares at him.

He shoots him an ironic glare, "No, I was momentarily busy preventing my skull from turning into a colander."

"She called her hideout _Wolf's Lair_. Does this name ring a bell?" the detective's gaze is so intense that John is compelled to look away, ill at ease with his friend's inspection of his general knowledge.

"Not sure, maybe. I probably studied it in school," he shrugs.

"Let me refresh your memory, then. _Wolf's Lair –_ in German _Wolfsschanze_ , was Adolf Hitler's military headquarters on the Eastern Front, during the war," Sherlock clarifies as if it was common knowledge.

"Hold on, I thought she tried to re-create Hitler's bunker in _Berlin_ ," Giulia objects. _She hates it when her genius flatmate makes it impossible for her to follow his train of thought._

"That was the clue left in the room with the emergency exit. But she is very fond of history, so she made another reference that I didn't immediately catch: Wolf's Lair was also the scene of a failed assassination attempt against Hitler – the so-called '20 July plot'. And that is Cathy's last mission: _killing the führer_ ," the detective concludes in a grim tone.

"Isn't she a bit late?" John sarcastically replies, earning a stern look from Sherlock. "Maybe neither of you can speak German, but I'm pretty sure you both know that the English translation of _führer_ is..."

"Leader," they pronounce simultaneously.

"She wants to kill the leader of the terror cell," Giulia realises shocked.

"Bingo," Sherlock beams at her and turns around, heading back to the construction site they have just fled. "I have to go back," it's the only explanation he provides them.

"Are you kidding? Those terrorists are probably still tracking us. You can't walk back in there. That's too reckless even for you," John struggles to keep his voice down even though he is boiling with rage. _Does Sherlock have any idea what surviving means?_

Sherlock turns to him and objects, "She's going to kill him."

"Yeah, and the victim is a terrorist leader. Who cares?" the doctor rolls up his eyes.

"You don't understand, John…" he tries to reason with him but is immediately interrupted by him, "No, I don't. In fact, I can barely recognise you. You undervalue your own life all the time and now you're concerned about the survival of a criminal?"

"No, I'm not. As for me, he could be tortured and executed, and it wouldn't affect me at all. But if she kills him now, I will never be able to interrogate him. And I must do it: I need answers. I have to bring this cell down," Holmes affirms stubbornly.

John shakes his head, showing his disappointed tight-lipped smile, and opens his arms in surrender. "Here's the Sherlock Holmes I know, the man who always puts his life at risk just because _he_ _needs to know,_ " he spits out every word tartly. _He knows there is nothing left to say, he is all too aware of the stubbornness of his friend; he can see a glint of determination shimmering in his eyes._

Sherlock finally finds the strength to look straight in John's pale-blue irises, "Keep Giulia safe and stay away from the building, are we clear?"

The doctor stares back at him for a long instant before nodding quickly, speechless.

"Behave, you two. I'll be back in no more than ten minutes," he winks at them and runs away.

John watches his silhouette disappear into the night then turns to the quiet girl. "I'm sorry. This insane situation has taken an unexpected turn, and I still haven't checked on you. Are you alright?"

"A bit upside down, but I'm fine," she flashes a faint smile.

He sighs, "Good. We should alert the police, now. I know they are dealing with a bomb at the moment, but half of the terrorist squad is here, and I wouldn't mind some backup."

He makes some calls, phones Lestrade and Scotland Yard repeatedly, trying both to collect information about the bomb and call for help. After a few minutes, he eventually pockets his phone and tilts his head with a pensive expression, " _Wolf's lair_... how could he recall that? How can his brain work so fast? As I said, I remember that I studied it at school, and now it just came back to my mind. I did a research project on that particular German headquarters," he speaks freely, as childhood recollections come and go.

"That one specifically? Why?" Giulia asks him. _She hasn't had the opportunity to spend a lot of time with her new flatmates yet, and she wishes she could have more occasions for a chat, especially with John, who seems the most human of the two. It would be nice to sit down in the living room and let him talk, just talk, about whatever he feels like sharing. He seems reserved; it's clear that he is still readjusting to civilian life. In the end, that's all she knows about him: he was an Army doctor who got shot on the field, which makes more sense than Sherlock's made-up occupation as 'consulting detective'. She wouldn't mind knowing more about their life, possibly without being chased and shot at, next time._

"I liked the name," he replies automatically, lost in thought. "I remember that it surprised me that the whole complex was made up of eighty bunkers." Some details resurface distinctly from the mists of his memory. "They were so colossal that, at the end of the war, aerial bombardment didn't succeed in provoking severe damage. They managed to blow them up only through massive explosives..." he trails off.

Suddenly, he feels like a brick hit him in the head as his blood turns cold in his veins. "Oh God," his words die away in his mouth. He instinctively leaps forward crying out, "SHERLOCK!"

At that exact moment, a huge explosion knocks the two of them down while the whole building collapses upon itself. The crash of the detonation reverberates through their chests for seconds on end.

John coughs spasmodically and props up on his knees and palms with difficulty. He squints trying to ignore all the dust that has lifted from the ground; he stares at what remains of the construction site: a pile of rubble and flames rising towards the night sky.

While facing the very hell, one single thought possesses his mind: _my best friend was in there._


	8. Like the old days in hell

_ A few minutes before the explosion _

Sherlock walks around the unfinished building and cautiously steps in through a side entrance.

 _She was alone before we arrived. However, she knew that her chasers would find her, eventually. She must have prepared a backup plan, but what is it? And why hasn't she resorted to it yet?_ These questions swirl in his mind as he turns around a corner stepping along a large corridor.

The ruction and gunfire have ceased. A dead silence has fallen on the building. The terrorists have given up on chasing the three of them and have chosen to pursue Cathy, instead.

 _Yet they still don't know that their prey itself is now hunting them_ , he thinks, smiling to himself. He stands still as he hears footsteps wandering around the room next door. He pricks up his ears. _Four men, maybe five, judging by the gait and the walking paces_ , he quickly deduces listening to their movements. _They're gathering and discussing: a new course of action is probably necessary, which is why they will have to meet with their leader. And where there is the leader, there will be Cathy, too._ His thoughts come in quick succession until the most logical assumption, _She knows she could never survive a straight fight against four or more gunmen, so she's probably hiding somewhere near their rally point waiting for the right moment to strike._

He doesn't waste any time and silently slides down the walls, his eyes penetrating the darkness. He catches a movement out of the corner of his eye. When he reaches that spot, he finds Cathy crouched down next to glass doors connected to the main room where the terrorists have assembled. She is positioning a rifle near the doorjamb taking advantage of the fact that the door stands ajar. She hasn't noticed him; she is completely focused on her target.

"That's a bit coward, isn't it? Backstabbing your former boss," Sherlock asks, faking indignation.

His unexpected appearance makes her jump, but she immediately recognises his voice and tries to hide her astonishment while her wide grin shines in the dark. "Technically, it's _back-shooting_ , and he was never truly my boss."

He steps forward coming within her visual range, and she turns partially towards him, "I thought you were on the safe side."

"I was. A bit boring for my taste," he grimaces.

"You are certainly going to enjoy this entertaining execution, then," a flicker of cruelty sparkles in her eyes while she looks through the crosshairs.

"I didn't come to be a spectator,” he pronounces, taking one more step forward.

She sighs, glowering at the terrorists, "My sister was forced to commit suicide because of these people and the crazy plan of their leader. I hold him responsible for my twin's death, and if you think I am going to spare his life, you're deadly wrong."

"There's always an alternative. We can work it out together," Sherlock proposes softly, walking closer. “Let me help you.”

"There's nothing to be done, not now, not anymore," she leans forward to take aim.

He leaps towards her, shouting, "Cathy, don't!"

The terrorists hear his muffled scream and spin around, guns blazing; they immediately open fire against their position. The wall next to Sherlock and Cathy is riddled with bullets while the glass doors shatter in a rainstorm of noise. Flying splinters of glass fall everywhere; Sherlock instinctively protects his head with his arms, ending up with a few scratches on his pale skin. Cathy, instead, gets a nasty gash on her leg. He crawls towards her to examine the wound: it is deep and bleeds fast. He quickly tears an edge from his shirt and carefully wraps it around her leg.

She props up on her elbows and mumbles, "Mr Holmes, you've made a mistake: you should have never returned here."

"Why?" he takes care of her injury without losing sight of the approaching shooters, out of the corner of his eye.

"Because you won't make it out of here alive,” she breathes out between groans.

He stops for an instant to look up at her, determination glimmering in his fiery eyes, "I won't let them kill me."

"I'm not talking about _them_." She winces in pain and suppresses a screech when he applies pressure to the wound to stop the blood flow. "You figured it all out, didn't you? My personal war, my bunker, my plot... You're very clever, indeed. You haven't considered what lies beneath every conflict, though. Collateral damages, detective, human lives. I regret that your name will be among the casualties, too."

He cocks a brow at her and rebuts boastfully, "I may not be bulletproof, but I can assure you..."

"That you're _bomb-proof_?" she cuts him off.

At that precise moment, the killers suddenly quit shooting as another man of the squad breaks into the room panting heavily. "Stop it, you idiots!" he yells. He takes some deep breaths before being able to articulate, "We need to get out of here, now! This place is stuffed with explosives."

Sherlock freezes as they run away. "Did you plan to..." he doesn't finish his question, he already knows the answer. He merely points out the obvious consequence, "This place is about to blow up."

She nods, "It's a matter of minutes, maybe seconds. I lost track of time in the shooting."

His mind sets in motion, examining the entire building. "What's the shortest way out?"

She shakes her head with a resigned expression, "Nothing would be quick enough. We're going to be within the blast radius, anyway. There's no escaping an explosion."

Sherlock looks around the hall and smiles slightly as a sudden idea strikes him. He quickly stands up, grabs her arm and slides it over his shoulders, holding her up while they walk slowly, one leg after the other until they reach the back of the room and the top of a staircase.

"We'll stick to the vintage methods, then," he states as they rush downstairs together as fast as possible.

* * *

_ Five minutes after the explosion _

John stands still in the same spot in which the explosion flung him. He hasn't moved, he hasn't taken a single step forward. He cannot take his eyes from the dreadful hell of flames in front of him. He stares at the burning ruins, still unable to realise what happened. He simply stands by without moving a muscle or uttering a sound.

Suddenly, his phone begins to ring. He pulls it out and looks at the screen: **_unknown number_**.

 _It must be someone at Scotland Yard, maybe Greg with a colleague's phone_ , John thinks distractedly. He presses the answer button and puts the phone up to his ear. "It blew up," he whines without giving the caller time to speak. "The bloody building blew up," he repeats, his voice broken.

After a moment of silence, the person on the other end of the line finally talks. "I know. My ears are still ringing," a familiar baritonal voice replies.

John almost drops his phone; his veins pump blood at a frantic rate threatening to explode. "Sh-Sherlock?"

"Yes, John, it's me. Were you expecting another call?" he asks annoyed. "By the way, could you come to pick us up? We are two blocks away. And John, call an ambulance, would you?"

Sherlock hears him holding his breath, so he promptly adds, "Before you ask, I'm fine, but Cathy needs medical assistance."

John grips his phone tightly as his knuckles turn white. Among all his doubts, all the possible questions he could ask, he simply breathes out, "How did you end up there?"

"We took the Tube,” he replies enigmatically and ends the call.

John and Giulia immediately hurry to the telephone booth from which Sherlock phoned him. The doctor runs towards the two figures seated on the kerb and clinically scrutinises their injuries. _Cathy is clearly worse off than Sherlock, but nothing life-threatening_. He kneels to examine her wound then looks up at his friend in shock, "How did you survive?"

"I simply thought that if London was able to withstand German air strikes during the Battle of Britain, we could trust the old English survival skills, as well," Sherlock shrugs as if he was talking about a peaceful walk, while sirens start wailing in the distance: the police is close.

John frowns, "I don't understand."

"Because you never observe,” the detective grunts exasperated. “When the cab got there in the first place, did you notice how sunken and low the building looked like? The stark contrast with the neighbouring high-rises was evident. It should have been obvious, but I have been slow. So, I needed to see the ticket barrier inside to finally understand: that construction site was meant to be a new underground station."

Giulia's face lights up when she hears his last words. "Apparently, history has saved your life for the second time, today."

He nods at her quick conclusion. "Exactly. I presumed that if a station was being built above the ground, there had to be platforms and tracks _below_. That's how our grandfathers escaped the air raids: they sought shelter inside the Tube stations. Cathy is a war lover, and I certainly didn't want to disappoint her; so we got out _vintage style_. We went downstairs and tried to run as far as possible along the under-construction tracks. We re-emerged at that building site," he gestures to the corner of the street.

John sighs relieved, "You made it. Everything is fine."

Sherlock's face clouds over, "No, not everything. The terrorist leader managed to escape.”

"No, he didn't," a hoarse voice pronounces behind him. Sherlock turns around startled.

"We caught him. He is in our custody now," Lestrade asserts closing the door of a police car that has just pulled over next to them.

Holmes looks at him in disbelief while John bursts out, "How did you do that? I texted you only a few instants before the explosion, and the criminals were probably already out at the time. You were on the other side of the city," he protests.

"I had already been informed. Before getting your distress message, Mycroft Holmes had personally contacted me, notifying your position. He practically _commanded_ me to come to your aid. I think he said he was speaking on behalf of the British government," he recalls, furrowing his brow. _He doesn’t quite like being bossed around, especially not by someone whose last name is Holmes._

John is even more bewildered, "Mycroft? Hang on, how did he know our coordinates..." he stops and sighs, "Oh, I see. He deciphered the crossword, too. Of course. _The deduction thing_ of the Holmeses."

Sherlock gives him a death stare and Giulia chuckles. "What about the bomb, instead?" the detective tries to change the subject.

"We found it inside the building of the Palestinian mission, exactly as you had indicated in your text. Bomb techs took care of it: the area is clear, now,” Lestrade reports.

"Did you catch some other terrorists, too?" Sherlock inquires in a disinterested tone. _He solved his case, after all. His only goal was to track down and save Cathy Baaral. Mission accomplished, somehow. He couldn’t care less about side results._

"All of them, actually. It's strange; most of them are British citizens. I wasn't expecting it," the D.I. scratches his head visibly stressed and worn-out.

Giulia turns to Sherlock with a satisfied grin, and he stares back at her trying to hide his admiration. _It doesn't happen often that someone is able to provide the right answer before him. To be precise: it never happens._

As Lestrade steps away, she walks up to the detective and breaks the ice, "So, how did I do?"

He nods with a sarcastic smile, "Fine. Very well, indeed. You survived a day on the field with us: an unprecedented success.”

She rolls her eyes, "I solved the case, remember? I found out the second message in the puzzle and warned you about the bomb; I told you why the terrorists were targeting the Palestinian mission, and I was correct about their nationality."

"Nothing exceptional," he replies disdainfully even if he has to admit that he is rather surprised. He shrugs dismissively, "It's nothing personal, but you are far too average, in my opinion."

She sighs and gives him a side glance, "You undoubtedly have unusual standards. Most people do their best only to be _just average_ ," she grimaces on the last words.

"Yet you agree with me, don't you?" he points out suggestively.

She bites her lips to suppress a smirk and talks back, "Why should I disagree with them?"

He fixes his eyes in hers and she notices his amused look. “Precisely because you keep referring to everyone else as _them_ , as someone different from _you_.”

"I _am_ different," she rebuts proudly, staring back at him

"We'll see about that," he concludes evasively. _Being an exception isn't necessarily a good thing, and he knows that all too well. To the world, 'different' isn't a synonym of unique but an omen of threat._

* * *

Some paramedics have placed Cathy on a stretcher and they are now carrying her into the ambulance. Giulia remembers something and runs to her, followed closely by Sherlock.

"Cathy, wait!" she shouts reaching the stretcher and slipping her hand into her coat pocket. "Here," she says pulling out a creased note. "I thought you should have this. Your sister wrote it before..." she gets choked up and isn't able to go on.

The secret agent looks up at her and smiles faintly clutching her hand around the paper, "Thank you."

Giulia bows her head, overwhelmed by emotions. Cathy lifts a hand with great effort and gently caresses her cheek. "Do you have any siblings?"

At that question, Giulia’s eyes sparkle for an instant, as she murmurs, "I have a sister. She lives in Italy. We are a bit far away these days."

"Distance doesn't matter. When we were working at the MI6 project, my sister and I were always in different places and could never be together. But we were just one person; I was her and she was me. And I must live for her too, now." She shoots a glance at the paramedics and understands it is time to go, so she turns towards the girl for one last word, "Tell your sister that you love her. You never know how greedy time could be: tell her."

She nods, "I will."

Sherlock places a hand on her shoulder in a clumsy attempt to comfort her and drive her away from the ambulance that leaves accompanied by the plaintive wail of its sirens. She gives him a faint smile for his effort, then takes the phone out of her pocket and dials a number, rubbing the back of her free hand under her watery eyes.

He understands that someone has picked up when he sees her face suddenly lighting up with pure joy. "Hey Sis," she says cheerfully, "How are you? I just called to hear your voice." She walks away laughing and talking on the phone.

The detective looks at her for a moment then decides to make a call.

"Good evening, Sherlock," a well-known voice picks up.

"Hello, brother mine. It appears I've just solved the case you wanted to assign me all along," he replies smugly.

"So I heard. You've found and saved an agent of the Secret Service, and you've kept international relations between Palestine and the UK to a stable level, thus sparing us the catastrophic possibility of World War III. Yes, I've already been informed. Why are you calling me?" Mycroft isn’t able to hide the exhaustion in his voice.

Sherlock clears his throat uncomfortably, "Just to underline that it was extremely unwise of you not to tell me about the twin project."

"I'm the big brother. It's my duty to protect you,” his sibling declares.

"Oh, shut up," the detective snorts.

"Did you call to complain? Goodbye, brother dear." Mycroft is about to hang up when Sherlock stops him, an unusual trace of urgency taints his voice, "Wait, Mycroft..."

"Yes?" he asks suspiciously. He can distinctively hear Sherlock taking a deep breath.

"I wanted to tell you one more thing," he almost whispers.

The elder frowns in confusion, "I'm listening."

Sherlock makes a pause. He wonders why he always finds it so difficult to deal with his brother. _They share blood ties, after all, shouldn't it be enough? Sibling rivalry: is this the only kind of relationship they can have?_

He realises his silence is becoming odd and awkward, and sighs, "You aren't the smart one."

"Of course I am. Goodnight, Sherlock."


	9. Battle of wits

"Sherlock! John!" Giulia furiously cries out rushing upstairs.

It's been two weeks since their case together and it almost looks like the three of them have finally found a balance at 221 Baker Street... _Almost_.

The two men sitting in their armchairs exchange confused glances, and John glowers at Sherlock like a father scolding his son, "What did you do this time?"

He lifts his eyes from the computer placed on his legs and scowls back at him, "Nothing. And she shouted your name as well."

"I am innocent," the doctor states placing a hand over his heart emphatically while Giulia throws the door open and marches inside the living room.

"So am I," Sherlock adds candidly.

"I don't think so. You read my diary," she protests indignantly shaking a notebook in the air.

The detective gives her an indifferent shrug, "Why would I be interested in it anyway?"

She throws an eloquent glance at him, "Maybe you thought I wrote something about you."

"Did you?" he hastily inquires.

She raises her eyebrows, "You already know the answer. You broke into my flat and..."

"To be fair, you allowed us to go in; you gave us a spare key, remember?" Sherlock cuts her off instantly.

"Yes, _in case of an emergency_. Certainly not to violate my privacy," she hisses, then shakes her head, letting her anger cool down slowly. "But while we're at it, please, do tell: what do you think about my personal thoughts?"

"I already know them. I read your plain mind every day: nothing special," his tone is more scornful than usual, and she immediately figures out the reason behind his bad mood.

"Oh, I see," she smiles slyly with a gleam in her eyes, "You didn't like what you found."

Sherlock's head snaps up, "Actually, I didn't like the way you described me."

"No, no, Sherlock," John intervenes in despair. "You're blowing our cover: you can't admit that you read it."

"Seriously, John, _et tu_?” she asks surprised, crossing her arms over her chest. “What's your opinion, then?"

John swallows embarrassed and mumbles, "I'm sorry, it was none of our business."

"It really wasn't. Although, I expected you would nose around my things sooner or later,” she sighs, leaving that hint hoover in the air.

The detective reflects for a few seconds then inquires distrustfully, "How did you know we did it, by the way? We've been extremely careful: we left everything exactly the way it was. Have you installed hidden cameras?"

She rolls up her eyes, "Come on, 221C is not the Pentagon."

"Then how?" he fixes his eyes in hers. _This is getting interesting; most of his friends never spot his little intrusions. For instance, Lestrade has never suspected that Sherlock pays regular unauthorised visits to his office when he is out, and he would probably pale at the number of police IDs and items that the detective has stolen from him over the years. Only his brother can always deduce when he breaks into his house, but that’s hardly a surprise considering Mycroft’s superior mind and the fact that the whole point of Sherlock’s incursions is to test the limits of his sophisticated alarm system, out of boredom._

"Have you ever read _'1984'_ by George Orwell?" Giulia asks him.

"You mean the book about Big Brother? I must have leafed through it when I was a boy. School stuff: _bo - ring!_ " he spells out, getting back to focusing on the PC in front of him.

"I did and I enjoyed it, but I don't see any connection," John chimes in.

She pulls out one single hair from her head, puts it on the pages of her diary and closes it. John observes her movements and immediately understands, "Oh, right, it’s the same trick that Winston Smith, the protagonist, employed to check if the government had read his journal. By placing hair between the pages of his diary and checking that it stayed there, untouched, he was certain that nobody had snooped around in his things. It was in the story."

Giulia flashes him a cunning smile, "That book is a classic. And you two are very predictable; I knew you would get rid of that sign the moment you opened the pages. You always go mad if you find some of my hair around the flat." She looks around wrinkling her nose, "And yet you never complain about dust."

"Dust can tell you everything," Sherlock retorts.

"Hair can do it too, apparently," John points out.

"What appalled you, then?" Giulia faces Sherlock with a challenging expression on her face, going back to his critique.

He raises his gaze on her and twitches his lips almost in disgust, "You wrote that I'm ' _too clever for this world'."_

"I didn't mean it as an insult,” she replies innocently.

"But it makes no sense. What does it even mean?" he frowns.

"In fairness, you always complain that everyone is an idiot," the doctor underlines with a groan.

"Because practically everyone is," he snarls.

John raises his arms in surrender, "Right, and you are the misunderstood genius, aren't you?"

"No, he isn't," Giulia steps in.

Sherlock furrows his brow seemingly offended, "Pardon?"

She replies to John pointing a finger at Holmes, "He is brilliant, yeah, but there's nothing unintelligible in what he does. He simply wants everything to be clever to keep the wheels in his head turning around."

Sherlock snorts, "I'm already fed up of this conversation. John, can I use your phone?"

"Sure. It's in the kitchen,” his friend doesn’t even ask why he can’t use his own; _he knows it is a lost battle._

"Too far," he idly complains. "Can I borrow yours?" he looks up at Giulia.

"Don't you have one?"

"Yes, but I left mine in the bedroom. Can I take your phone, _please_?" he asks impatiently, his plead could not sound more forced.

She digs her phone out of her pocket and hands it to him, but immediately asks it back, "Sorry, I forgot to unlock it. You should give it to me if you want to use it: it is password-protected."

He raises an eyebrow without bothering to conceal his arrogance, "It won't be a problem."

She tilts her head, "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, unluckily, these little obstacles don't deter him. My computer is password protected too," John sighs, nodding at the computer Sherlock has been using all along.

"Do you really think you can guess my phone code?" she asks dazed.

"I don't _guess_ ; I deduce,” he promptly corrects her.

"Go on, then: show me," she encourages him with a challenging smirk.

Sherlock keeps her phone between his folded palms and props his chin on his hands, keeping his eyes fixed on her. "Let me think: you are a practical, organised girl, and here's a four-number code..."

"Wait a minute," she interrupts him. "How can you be sure it's four numbers? It's not compulsory; one could set up whatever combination you want: five, six, even ten numbers."

"Yes, one _could_ ,” he admits then grins at her, “But I'm pretty sure you _didn't_."

"Why?" she struggles to understand how he can see through her so easily.

"Because I'm not playing with numbers on a keyboard, I'm playing with _you_. I've started with simple observations: an exchange student that keeps in touch with friends and family abroad. You hardly ever turn on your computer and for university assignments only, suggesting you check everything directly on your smartphone: e-mails, websites, news, messages. Therefore, you must use it often during the day. Why on earth a reasonable, busy person who has loads of occasions to unlock her phone would ever bother to press several numbers _every - single - time_? Conclusion: you probably went for the easiest and fastest option,” he explains.

She stares at him for a second, speechless, while drawing one conclusion herself: _he has been observing her closely_. "Fine. Sorry for interrupting."

"You didn't deny my conclusion, so I'll assume I'm right. Now, four numbers, chosen by you – quite a smart girl, I'll concede it, but still banal from my perspective."

She frowns at him, even though, after some weeks of cohabitation, she knows better than to take offence at his hateful remarks. He dismisses her reaction and carries on, "Banal, four numbers... likely a date, possibly a birthday, but _your birthday_?" he pronounces in an unconvinced tone.

"You don't know when I was born," she snaps back.

"No, I don't, but it's sort of public knowledge: all of your closest friends and each member of your family would know your code. Too risky," he shakes his head.

"You're assuming I'm not inclined to show the content of my phone,” she notices.

"I'm assuming it's a personal matter: you may have secrets there. Almost everyone has,” he shrugs, surprised by the both amused and insulted look on her face. "I'm not so naïve," she protests.

Sherlock freezes immediately. " _Naïve,_ " he repeats the word aloud. "It would be indeed naïve to choose your own birthday, but there's more; you are not self-centred, and I've always thought this would be an egotistic choice. Not your birthday, then. Nevertheless, there's still a chance the code might refer to a mother's, father's or sibling's birthday. But then again, who would be so attached to their own family?" he chuckles.

"Sherlock..." Watson scolds him.

"What? It isn't _nice_? I don't care, John, I'm striving to be objective. No, no birthdays, it must be something different. Let's focus..." he closes his eyes for three seconds, then snaps them open. "Focus! Yes, _your focus;_ something you care about. You came to England from Italy for your education, you study hard and your grades matter a lot to you," he comes to a halt and nods confidently. "That's it: the code is related to your studies. Definitely a date: a particular day, but which one?"

"You said she left her country to study abroad: maybe the day she came to London?" John suggests.

"No, too recent. She is a creature of habit; she didn't change her code because of this event, just some weeks ago. She must have used the same methodical sequence for at least a year, maybe two. A significant date, apparently,” Holmes stares at her standing in the middle of the room and smiles triumphantly, "Perhaps, the successful completion of the course of your studies. You’re getting a Master’s degree, meaning that you already obtained your Bachelor’s. When?"

She keeps an unreadable face and replies plainly, "On the 3rd of July 2018."

"Good. Now I have two options left: either the complete date 3-7-1-8 or just the day and month. You are precise, and I have observed you studying: you usually write the date at the top of the page and you always put the zeros in it. You are very meticulous, indeed. No year, then, but simply 0-7-" he starts pressing the numbers but suddenly stops. "Hold on. You aren't American; you are Italian. The day first, then."

He deletes the numbers and types the code again from the beginning. "0-3-0-7. Here we are, the moment of truth," he announces keeping the phone up in the air for all to see.

"Are you sure?" she tests his ego.

Sherlock keeps his eyes on the screen. "Undoubtedly." He confirms the code, but it doesn't unlock. A sign appears on it: **_Error_**.

"What a pity," she mocks him with a sneer. "I did enjoy your deductions, by the way."

He stares vexed at the screen, "I was so sure... What did I get wrong?"

"Technically, three numbers out of four, but most of the things you said were very accurate. You made only one mistake."

"Only one? But I got three numbers wrong,” he objects, confused.

Giulia grabs her phone from his hands and smiles at the baffled detective, "You said it, Sherlock: it's not about the numbers, it's about **_me_**. I haven't chosen a date, I'm not so banal..." she smirks at the last word and digits four numbers, then turns the screen to show it to him, "... I'm even more simplistic than that."

The code is 2-5-8-0.

She hands the phone back explaining, "Everything you said was on point: yes, I'm practical. Yes, I'm busy and I use my smartphone again and again during my day. No, I've never changed my code, I'm used to it. And you know why? Because it's handy; those are the central numbers, the easiest to press for the thumb when holding the phone with one free hand. A simple _stroll_ along the keypad, without any relevant meaning."

She shrugs, "Now you see what I meant about you and your apparent genius attitude, earlier? You always want everything to be clever, but you risk being disappointed: sometimes people aren't the challenge you'd like to face." And with that, she goes back downstairs.

He watches her leave. _She might be right about people in general, but her… she looks precisely like the kind of challenge he would like to pick_.


	10. Sherlock Holmes baffled?

It is a chilly autumn day, and Sherlock comes back to Baker Street after wandering around the city for hours, lost in thought. When he walks through the door of his flat, his nostrils instantly catch an intense smell of smoke. He gazes at the flames on the other side of the living room and gapes.

"What happened to the fireplace?" he blurts out.

Giulia, who is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, turns her head and smiles brightly at him. "You mean the fact that it is currently hosting a fire?" she points at the warm glow in front of her.

"No, no, no. Bad idea! It's completely wrong," he rushes to her.

She frowns, "I'm quite sure this is its primary function, though."

"There's no time for jokes. Put it out, now!" he shouts angrily.

She does a double-take at his furious reaction but manages to protest, "No way. It took me half an hour to light it like this. What's the problem?"

"My secret supply,” he replies tartly.

She narrows her eyes at him, "Your what?"

"My cigarettes. I always keep an emergency packet in the inside of the fireplace," he hurries towards it, stretching out his arms. She quickly pushes him aside, away from the burning embers. "Don't touch, you'll get burned," she warns as if she was dealing with a child.

"No problem, I'm already boiling with rage," he glares at her.

"Calm down. I found your cigarettes pack before starting the fire,” she explains serenely.

He relaxes a bit and sighs, "Thank goodness. Where - is - it?” he spells out. “What have you done with it?"

She grins and casts an eloquent glance at the fire next to her, "I thought it would be an excellent fuel and I threw it into the flames."

Sherlock goggles at her then gives a helpless look at the fireplace, murmuring lividly, "You're so hateful."

"You're welcome," she replies as if he had just thanked her instead of complaining. "I can save your lungs anytime."

"Why did you do that? Why are you like _this_?" he hisses through gritted teeth.

"Worried about your health and life expectancy? Oh, I don't know: it might be a _collateral effect_ of being human," she retorts with a wry smile.

“You…” he struggles to contain his anger and bites down on his lip. "Please, leave me alone,” he eventually mumbles.

"Sure. I'll let you contemplate the reaching of your goal," she stands up and heads towards the door.

He doesn’t even turn to her, but demands, "What goal?"

"10 days without smoking. Be proud of yourself," she takes one last glance at him before leaving the room.

At that moment, John enters the flat carrying grocery bags. "What a pleasant warmth,” he exclaims. “It's about time that someone lighted up that fireplace."

"Not you too," Sherlock rolls his eyes.

Giulia passes by him while going downstairs and winks at him, "I'm glad to finally receive the right reaction. Thanks."

John frowns at her, "Why are you leaving?"

She nods in the direction of the detective, "He wants me out of his way."

The doctor sighs. Knowing Sherlock, he must not have been too delicate in his request for space. He raises his eyes on his silent flatmate, asking, "What happened?"

"She burned my cigarettes," the detective groans, sinking into his armchair.

"Didn't she know that Mrs Hudson has a lot of wood?" John replies ironically.

Holmes scoff, "I'm not in the mood, John."

John sits down in his armchair across from him. “Seriously, though, why did she do it? Is it retaliation for something you did to her? Did you read her diary again?” he tests the waters.

Sherlock glowers at him, “It’s not the case, but even if Giulia and I were at war, why would you assume that I started it?”

The doctor rests his back against the seatback and smirks, “Because I know you… both of you.”

* * *

Two hours later, Sherlock goes downstairs and opens the door of 221C without even bothering to knock. He feels a sense of _déjà vu_ : Giulia is sitting in the middle of her tiny living room, legs crossed, facing the flames crackling in the grate. _She did it again._

"You are genuinely attracted to fire," he points out, walking towards her.

She doesn't turn around, not even when he stops behind her. She murmurs, "I like playing with it, always have. There was a fireplace at my house when I was a child. I used to spend hours in front of it just staring at the flames. I was calming and hypnotic."

"Fire can be dangerous," he admonishes.

"And fascinating. Some of the most beautiful things on Earth are also the most dangerous. Ironic, isn't it? You can't even admire the beauty of this world without the risk of leaving it for good,” she closes her eyes and lets the warmth of fire caress her cheeks.

They stay quiet for a while, listening to the pleasing crackle.

"What's your idea about murder?" Sherlock suddenly breaks the silence.

She raises a brow in a sarcastic grimace, "Look, I know you can be very irritating sometimes, but I'm not planning to kill you."

"I didn't say _commit a murder,_ " he snorts.

"I see. You mean what are my thoughts about being a victim, then?" she frowns.

He rolls his eyes, "That's why I find it difficult to deal with people: no one ever understands me. Now, please, try to focus: would it upset you to walk into a crime scene?"

She pauses for a second, realising that even though she joined her flatmates in the secret agent’s case and regardless of the weeks already spent living in Baker Street, she has never considered that idea.

"As far as I'm not directly involved, I don't think so," she shrugs.

"Excellent, because that's exactly where we're going," he states and sticks his head out of the door, calling out, "John, we are leaving."

The doctor appears on the landing, "Where are you two going?"

"Lestrade texted me: a new case. You're invited too, of course. Take your coat,” he orders.

"No, Sherlock, wait. Do you really think _this_ is a good idea?" he hints at the involvement of the girl, then argues, "Remember what happened last time? Terrorists, shootings, explosions, lives at stake... to mention just a few aspects."

Giulia turns towards the detective, "He has a point."

Sherlock shakes his head, "First of all, never agree with him: you only encourage him. Secondly, if I recall correctly, her presence proved to be quite... useful," he forces himself to mutter that vague compliment before walking to the front door. He stops with his hand on the handle and abruptly spins around to face Giulia, "He was right on one thing, though. I think we should warn you: it might be difficult and possibly dangerous."

She gives him a determined look and smiles, "Do I look scared?"

* * *

Their cab pulls over next to a lavish house in one of the richest neighbourhoods in the city. They hop off and walk straight into the luxurious entrance where Lestrade is waiting for Sherlock.

"What's this _strange and inexplicable case_ , to quote you?" he taunts the D.I. who rolls his eyes at his rude tone and smiles humourlessly, "Hello to you, too, Sherlock. I'm fine, thank you for asking."

Holmes waves his hand dismissively, "Whatever. Can we skip the small talk and just get on with it, please?"

Lestrade begins to walk down a hall leading the group. "These are the facts: a sixty-year-old man, Mr Michael Chadley, was murdered in his study a few hours ago. The maid found him lying in a pool of blood. The crime scene has been well-preserved."

They reach a huge living room and pass by a marble fireplace. Sherlock steals a glance at it as the corners of his lips lift in a crooked smile. "Are you planning to light up this one, too?" he addresses Giulia, and she shoots him an ironic smile, "Maybe, if you keep being so _icy_."

He snorts, while John chuckles and winks at her. Lestrade glowers at him like a teacher who just spotted a pupil laughing during his lesson, and the detective murmurs, "Sorry, do go on."

"There's not much else to add: no enemies, no threats, no suspects. This case is very recent, though; my men are still gathering information,” the policeman flips his notepad.

"Which means you're groping around in the dark, getting nowhere," Sherlock haughtily reads between the lines.

"Yes, dear me," Greg sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

"No, inspector. I'd rather say, _Lucky you_ , you have me," he grins and enters a round study where a body is unnaturally laying over a wooden desk.

Giulia stops on the threshold and instinctively raises her hand to her mouth in a grimace of horror, hesitating to step forward.

"Either come in or stay out: it's your choice," Sherlock instructs without even looking in her direction. She nods briefly and stares at him while he paces around the room.

"First time on a crime scene?" a deep voice pronounces behind her causing her to jump. She turns around to face a smiling policeman. "Is it so obvious?"

"Don't worry. I know it might upset you a bit, especially when you are not used to it,” he beams at her with an understanding look.

"No, not really," she swallows, and he nods sympathetically. "The maid has just made us some tea. Fancy a cuppa?" the policeman passes her a tray, and she gratefully accepts a piping hot cup of tea.

In the meantime, Sherlock has examined every detail in the office taking a closer look at the corpse.

"What's your analysis, so far?" Lestrade interrupts his stream of thoughts.

"I've barely been here for four minutes," he protests without looking away from the dead body.

"Yeah, but I know you've already formed a hypothesis. Come out with it,” Greg incites him.

Sherlock clears his throat, "Let's see: he was standing behind his desk when he was stabbed... no, sorry, not stabbed. It wasn't a dagger or a knife; the edges of the wound are jagged and rough. A blade doesn't cut like that. Where is it, by the way?"

Lestrade gives him a questioning look, "Where is what?"

"The murder weapon,” he replies matter-of-factly.

"It isn't here,” the inspector shakes his head earning a theatrical eye-roll from Sherlock, "Obviously, that's why I'm asking you. It must be a blunt, rusty object, quite big and heavy, given the depth of the wound. I don't see anything like that around here."

Greg widens his eyes, "How do you know all that?"

"Take a good look at the cut: there are traces of rust on his damaged skin. But every item in this room looks brand new or in mint conditions: nothing seems to match the lethal wound," Sherlock spins, moving his gaze around the study. "So, I'll ask again: where did you put the weapon? Did you take it as a piece of evidence?"

"No. It was never here or near the body. We didn't find any murder weapon," Lestrade states disconsolately.

"Interesting," Sherlock mutters striding around.

"You were saying that he was sitting there..." Lestrade begins, but he is immediately cut off by Sherlock, "No, I didn't say that. Pay attention. He was _standing_ there when he was pierced, then he collapsed onto his chair. The murderer moved it after the strike. Look at the carpet: the wheels of the chair marked their path in blood." He points at the floor where two crimson lines run parallel across the thick rug.

Greg jots down the information on his notepad, afraid of losing even one bit of the detective’s rapid deductions. "Right. What else?"

"There's no sign of struggle, which is quite odd. He didn't try to defend himself. Why?" Sherlock asks not addressing anybody in particular.

"Maybe he knew he couldn't run away from his killer and was simply ready to accept his fate," Lestrade suggests.

"What fate? You said it: no enemies, no death threats. He surely wasn't expecting it. Yet, he was struck in the back. That's curious: how is it possible?" he comments out loud.

"An attack from behind?" John intervenes. He has been silent all along trying to keep up with his friend's deductions.

Holmes squints his eyes at the corpse. "It would seem the only reasonable explanation.”

The doctor recognises his sceptic tone. "But...?"

"But before his death, he had been busy at his desk writing and reading documents for hours. The ashtray is full of cigarettes: he spent the whole day in his study. Why would somebody hide behind him in this round room for quite some time, just waiting for him to stand so they could kill him? It makes no sense. Moreover, where did the killer conceal himself? There's no hiding place, here,” Sherlock turns on himself in the round room with arms wide open.

"Then how?" Johns asks waiting for the _obvious_ answers Sherlock always provides.

The detective frowns and remains silent. Then, he slowly stutters, "I – I don't know."

"What?" Watson glances at him goggle-eyed. _He is not sure he heard him correctly._

"Yet. I don't know it _yet,_ " Sherlock clarifies glaring at him. He quickly regains his composure and interrogates Lestrade, "Tell me more about the victim. What does the police know about Michael Chadley?"

The inspector browses through his notes, "He's a very rich man."

"Thank you for your input, but that was fairly evident," Holmes remarks with a sarcastic grin while his eyes travel around the luxurious mansion.

"He owns a company, an empire, to be precise. He's a self-made man who built his own fortune from nothing,” Lestrade adds.

"Remarkable. And he was sharing it with his wife, I presume,” his voice conceals a hint of suspicion.

Greg widens his eyes, "Correct. How...?"

Sherlock interrupts him mid-sentence pointing at the left hand of the corpse. "The wedding ring on his finger. This one was incredibly easy," he scoffs shaking his head at the slowness of Scotland Yard's finest.

"He got married fifteen years ago. A good marriage: the two of them were a right match, according to several attestations," Greg reads again on his notepad.

"I bet his money helped him look more charming in his lady's eyes," Sherlock comments tartly.

"Keep your voice down," the D.I. reprimands him, "Mrs Chadley is in the next room."

The detective's face lights up. "She’s here? I need to talk to her." He marches towards the door while Lestrade whispers peevishly after him, "Listen, she's just lost her husband. Now might not be the best time for your _Sherlockness_."

But Sherlock has already left the study, heading towards the adjacent room. "I'll behave," he mumbles in the same mischievous voice of a toddler falsely reassuring his father.

Giulia, who has been standing in the doorway the entire time, puts down her cup of tea, flashes a smile at the kind policeman who offered it and runs behind her flatmates.


	11. "Know your enemy and know thyself"

Sherlock pushes open the door of a luxurious sitting room; an elegant woman with a grief-stricken face is sitting daintily on an armchair.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Chadley. I am Sherlock Holmes, pleased to meet you," he introduces himself.

The woman looks up at him and smiles weakly. "Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes. Are you a police officer?" she inquires shaking his hand.

"Thankfully, no. But I'd like to ask you some questions, anyway, if you don't mind,” he simpers at her while John rolls up his eyes. _Holmes shouldn’t be let anywhere near grieving people; tactlessness is his speciality._

"You're my guest, now. Please, take a seat and make yourself comfortable," she does the honours, waving a hand towards a couch and an armchair. While his friends take a seat, he simply says, "I prefer to stand, thanks. It helps me think. So, Mrs Chadley, first of all..."

"First of all, we're very sorry for your loss," John intervenes cutting Sherlock off.

She attempts at a polite smile, "Thank you. Please, call me Lilian."

The detective clears his throat uneasily, "Well, Lilian, how would you describe your husband?"

Her eyes stare into the void as she replies, "He was a good man: devoted to his work and affectionate with me."

"You've been married for fifteen years," he states strolling around the room and stealing a glance at some photos on the wall. The portrait of Lilian Chadley in her wedding dress smiles brightly from one of the pictures. A formal invitation has been put in a frame and hung next to the bride's image. The refined cursive writing says:

_ ~ We are pleased to invite you to the wedding of _   
_ Ms Lilian Ann Kane _   
_ and _   
_ Mr Michael Damian Chadley ~ _

"Yes. I met him when I was forty. I was divorced, disenchanted and a bit cynical, at the time. Encountering him saved me," she remembers with a faint smile.

Sherlock averts his gaze from the frames on the wall, spins around and looks directly into her eyes, disregarding the tale of their love story, "Did he have any enemies?"

She arches a brow, "None. At least, not that I am aware of."

He bites down his lower lip, preventing himself from smirking to her face, then proceeds to ask curtly, "Did you trust him?"

She shoots him an outraged look, "I beg your pardon?"

"Sorry, I am sure he meant no disrespect," John chimes in again and scowls at his friend.

Holmes shakes his head, "In fact, I just wanted to know if there was complete confidence between the two of you. I thought I caught a distrustful tone in your answer. Has he ever lied to you?"

Lilian looks taken off guard, she swallows hard and stares back at him with watery eyes, "Well, Mr Holmes, I think we'll never know, now."

She looks away and they keep quiet for some seconds. Then she breaks the silence again, "However, I know my husband for the lovable, caring man he was. He was always kind and cheerful, he used to take care of his clients as well as of his employees. I have never heard a single word of criticism against him. So, no, Michael didn't have any enemies. And before you ask, I have no idea nor suspicion about who might have killed him."

At that moment, the doorbell echoes inside the house. A minute later, the maid steps into the sitting room and addresses Mrs Chadley, "Delivery for you, ma'am."

A postman shows up in the doorway handing a box to the woman. She stands up and carefully opens it. "His ties..." she whispers raising a hand to her mouth, in shock and sorrow. "He ordered them one week ago. I bet he didn't think he would wear one of those in his coffin, though," she sighs heavily in an effort to hold back the tears.

Sherlock watches as she takes the pen between her freshly polished nails and signs the receipt. Lilian dismisses the postman and turns to the detective, a sad look on her face, "If you have no further questions for me..."

"I don't," he cuts her short and puts up a fake smile. "Thank you for your time, Mrs Chadley. Sorry again for your loss. Goodbye."

He storms out of the room without a word. While walking past the fireplace, he instinctively glances at it. _Only earlier, he had confidently bantered with Giulia in front of it while heading to the crime scene. Now, instead, he is rushing outside, disoriented and clouded by uncertainty._

He steps out in the cold air and strides along the pavement as his flatmates try to catch up with him. They can almost see the gears turning in his mind. He is restless, vexed; a thousand questions fidget inside his skull, but for once, the answers don't seem too obvious.

"What's your verdict, then?" John asks with curiosity.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock answers absent-mindedly.

"The case, Sherlock. First things first: are you going to take it?" the doctor tries to capture his attention.

He shoots a rapid look at his friend with his ever-present arrogant frown, "Of course, I am."

"And... solve it?" Watson ventures, furrowing his brow.

"All in good time", it's his cryptic reply.

"You've never needed ' _good time'_ to solve a crime,” John scoffs.

Sherlock finally turns to face him, "This murder is _different_. There's something wrong. Too little information, too many missing pieces."

"Wanna have a solitary journey to your mind palace?" he suggests tactfully, concerned about his friend's unusual confusion.

Holmes sigh heavily; a distinctive note of defeat resounds in his tone when he says, "It's completely useless, at the moment. I just have to meet with someone who _might_ know things that I don't."

John looks bewildered at him, then he suddenly catches the meaning of his implication and smirks, "A baffled Sherlock Holmes is turning to his big brother for help. God, I thought I wouldn't live to see this day."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock grumbles raising a hand to hail a cab that quickly pulls over. He opens the passenger door and turns to his friends, "Are you two coming?"

"Another trip to Buckingham Palace? No thanks, I'll pass. Give my regards to Mycroft,” John bows his head courteously (and only a tiny bit sarcastically).

"Fine. What about you?" Sherlock gazes at Giulia, and she smiles, "I've always wanted to see where _Mr British government_ himself works."

She hops on and the detective takes a seat beside her. She suddenly turns towards him and timidly asks, "Sherlock, are we really going to Buckingham Palace?"

He looks out the window with a smug smile, "Of course not. He is in Parliament, today."

* * *

The cab ride is getting tedious, so Giulia decides to get more information out of the detective to keep up with that mysterious case.

"What do you think about the marriage of Mr and Mrs Chadley?" she asks curiously, and her eyes study Sherlock's pensive face.

He doesn't avert his gaze from the window, "Why do you ask?"

"Because you were insisting on indiscreet questions even if it was clear that Lilian had no intention of talking about the relationship of trust with her husband,” she points out.

He smirks at her observational skills and stares back at her, "It would be more accurate to say _the relationship of_ _distrust_."

"So, the two of them weren't a _right match,_ contrary to what Lestrade said,” Giulia infers.

He rolls his eyes, "We could have stated that from the start since perfect couples simply do not exist."

"How cynical of you,” she objects, glowering at him.

"I'm not cynical. I'm a realist," he sentences as a grave silence fills up the car once again.

Some minutes later, the girl suddenly questions him, "Have you ever thought about marriage?"

He turns to her with a look of confusion on his face, "You mean the word? Eight letters, three different vowels and consonants: not so interesting."

She lifts an eyebrow at him, "No, I am talking about the act: wedding vows and ceremony, that sort of stuff. Have you ever pictured yourself in such a scenario?"

" _Me_ getting married?" he asks perplexed as if the subject was beyond his understanding.

"What would be wrong with it?" she shrugs.

He shifts his position in the seat to face her, "Let's be totally honest: do you _truly_ believe in marriage?"

She nods, "I do."

"But it's completely irrational," he protests burying his head in his hands as if she had just affirmed to believe that two plus two equals five.

"I know that some marriages fail..." she begins patiently but is abruptly cut off by Sherlock, "Half of them, actually. If you could spare one minute to think about it, you'd realise that it is an irrational choice: marriage is just an inconvenient life-long contract."

"There's much more than this," she dissents fervently.

"Yes: _for worse, ... for poorer, in sickness ... until death do us part_. What a great future," Sherlock mocks her.

She shakes her head in despair and raises her hands in surrender. "I was wrong. I should have never brought up this subject with you. After all, why should you let love open your heart?" she sarcastically asks.

He scoffs, "Heart surgery is 48% more likely to succeed than marriage. I bet _that_ would widely open my heart."

At that moment, the cab pulls over and they silently hop off, ready to meet one of the most powerful men in Britain.

* * *

"You have no right to show up here, right when I am in the middle of a sensitive conversation with the Prime Minister," Mycroft bursts out, marching inside his office. He is wearing a dark suit and a red tie that he loosens a bit letting his anger blow off.

"I can entertain him on your behalf if you'd like," his little brother retorts with a mischievous grin.

"Good Heavens, you'd be able to declare a war in a matter of minutes,” the elder complains.

"I totally agree. Hello," Giulia peeps out behind Sherlock's back and waves at him.

Mycroft widens his eyes at her, bewildered. "What is _she_ doing here?"

"I too am pleased to meet you again, Mr Holmes." _The irony is her thing._

"Come on, Mycroft, behave. She's my guest," Sherlock reproaches him.

"In _my_ office?" Mycroft sighs heavily and breathes out, "Fine. To say that my time is priceless is an understatement. Tell me what you need and cut to the chase."

"What do you know about Michael Chadley?" his brother follows suit.

"If I recall correctly, he is a very wealthy man who owns a company of his own creation,” Mycroft replies promptly, scratching his chin.

"Your memory doesn't fail you. But he _was_ a very wealthy man. He passed away today,” his brother corrects him.

"Should I express my sincere condolences?" Mycroft simpers annoyed.

"He was murdered,” Giulia clarifies. _How can the Holmes brothers be so insensitive in front of the deceased?_ She mentally groans.

"Oh, I see," he fakes a smile and turns to his sibling. "It's one of your _enthralling_ cases. Can't you figure it out all by yourself, brother dear?" he taunts him.

" _Brother dear,_ please. It's important,” Sherlock stares into his eyes.

"I'll browse through all the classified files I can find and see if I can dig up something worthwhile about him. I cannot do more than that," he concedes, massaging his perennially frowned forehead.

Sherlock nods at him, reluctant to show gratitude, "It will be enough. Thank you."

"Now you owe me one, Sherlock," his older brother warns him.

"Mr Holmes?" Giulia interrupts their conversation. She has been strolling across the room and she is now standing in front of a marble bust, her head tilted to the side, a rapt look in her eyes.

"You can call him Mycroft," Sherlock intervenes. The eldest Holmes glares at him. _He'd rather keep his distance and authority._

"Well then, Mycroft, would you say that you know yourself?" the girl asks him with sincere curiosity.

The man looks as if she had just insulted him to his face. "Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry, I was following a train of thought. This is Socrates, isn't it?" she nods at the marmoreal head on a base stone which bears a plaque with obscure writing in a foreign alphabet engraved on it.

An impressed look glimmers in his eyes as he confirms, "Precisely."

"A great philosopher: he used to attribute a particular value to knowledge," she recounts.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Can we end here our philosophy class and get back to work? This is just boring," he snorts heading to the door, eager to carry out his investigation.

"Not at all, brother mine,” Mycroft raises a hand, signalling him to wait. “It is _fascinating_ , instead," he comments, gazing intently at Giulia. His eyes scan the girl from head to toe while he reaches his conclusion about her: _remarkable_.

She stares back at him as a quick smile crosses her lips, "Socrates used to give his disciples valuable pieces of advice. So tell me, Mycroft, did you follow one of his lessons, _'Know thyself'_?"

"I strongly believe that no man will ever have a perfect knowledge of himself. But, as for me, I get great pleasure from knowing everything about everyone else," he smirks; a sparkle of conceit flashes in his gaze.

"And here he is, in all his modesty," the detective teases him.

"Don't mock me, Sherlock. After all, you came to me for help," Mycroft reprimands him scornfully.

"And I regretted it almost immediately” he exhales loudly, eying the door.

His brother steals a glance at his pocket watch, "I have to go now, I can't keep the Prime Minister waiting." He comes near the girl and gallantly kisses her hand, "Miss Giulia, you are a very cultivated woman: it is an admirable quality. It was a pleasure to see you again."

"Thank you. It was good to see you, too," she replies politely.

"It is a pity that I cannot say the same," the youngest Holmes groans.

"Have a good day, Sherlock. I'll keep you informed," Mycroft gives him a condescending look and disappears beyond the door.


	12. (Un)usual suspects

Two days later, Sherlock is lying on the couch, stretching his feet over the armrest. He has spent most of the time in this position, his eyes closed, his hands steepled under his chin; perfectly immobile.

Giulia and John have almost begun to see him as a part of the furniture of the flat; he has become one with the upholstery on the couch. On more than one occasion, Giulia has slowly raised her hand over his nose just to make sure that he was still breathing. One time, he opened his eyes right at that moment and flinched at the sight of a hand hovering above his face, instinctively thinking that she was going to slap him. Giulia has stopped checking on his vital functions since then.

Today, he is lying on the sofa once again: the living room is quiet as Giulia reads a book and John flips through the pages of the newspaper.

"The funeral!" Sherlock cries out without warning, shooting his eyes open and making everyone jump in their seats in surprise.

"What?" John looks dazed at him.

"The burial service of Michael Chadley will take place today at the cemetery," he specifies sitting upright.

"Interesting. I wonder why it isn't on the front page," Watson sarcastically mumbles folding the paper and placing it on the small table.

"It could be a goldmine. Not to be missed,"Sherlock pronounces allusively, ignoring the snarky comment.

The doctor gives him a bored look and stifles a yawn, "Are you going to the ceremony, then?"

"No. _You_ are," the detective simpers pointing at the two people in the room.

"Thank you very much for your _kind offer_ , but I decline," Giulia answers promptly, closing her book.

Sherlock flashes his puppy eyes, "Please, it's for the case."

She stares back, unmoved, and asks, "If it's so important, why don't you go?"

"It's barely a 7. I am not really in the mood to go out for anything less than an 8,” he grumbles, rattling off the number system that he uses as a benchmark to evaluate the critical level of his cases.

"And what about the _goldmine_?" the doctor inquires, quoting him.

Sherlock beams at them for a second. "I am sending my best miners," then he sinks again into the couch, wrapping his dark blue gown around his body. He retreats in permanent silence.

* * *

One hour and a half later, John and Giulia are on their way to the cemetery. As they are walking side by side, John gives her a desolate look, "Sorry for dragging you into a case on your day off."

"No problem. I'm starting to get used to your _peculiar_ habits and time-schedule," she shrugs with a smile.

They walk in silence for some minutes, then Giulia suddenly comments, "What greatly astonishes me is the fact that you two were able to survive all this time."

"Our lifestyle can be dangerous sometimes, that's true," he acknowledges nodding.

She turns to look at him and smirks, "I meant the fact that _you_ never attempted to take his life."

John bursts into laughter and shakes his head. "I planned about three different scenarios to make it look like an accident," he chortles, making her laugh out loud. She becomes suddenly aware of their surroundings and puts a hand over her mouth, embarrassed; they are standing at the entrance of the cemetery – not exactly the most appropriate place for laughter.

Giulia takes a cursory glance at the headstones and lowers her voice, "Every time I pass by a graveyard, I am reminded that even when life becomes an exhausting challenge, in the end, we are truly defeated only when we give up and there's nobody by our side to pick up the pieces."

She swallows looking into the distance while her thoughts fly away, "No matter how hard the path might be, life becomes almost unbearable when you cannot share your battle with anyone, and you have to stand up for yourself." She is reminded of the long solitary months before she arrived in London and bites down her lower lip in a desperate attempt to whisk away those gloomy thoughts. _She stood strong alone, she had no other choice. But she is so tired of having to keep everyone at a distance, to protect them._

Her flow of thoughts is interrupted by the touch of two hands gently placed on her shoulders. John has stopped her and is now looking into her eyes, "Whatever happens, you are not alone, Giulia. You have us, me and Sherlock, by your side."

She stares at his kind face. _There is so much they don't know. Is it fair to expect that they are going to stay with her unconditionally?_

She nods slightly, "Promise?"

He smiles warmly, "Promise."

She gazes at him and forces a smile but he can spot the crack in the mirror. Sherlock might be the observant detective, but he notices these signs about people. And behind her stormy eyes, he perceives a hidden, agonising story she has not told yet.

They walk across the cemetery and get to the place of the burial service.

"I still don't get why Sherlock made us come here. I highly doubt that a killer would show up at his victim's funeral," John complains, starting to look around.

"Let's check everyone, so we can go back to the flat as soon as possible," she replies, glancing over the small crowd around the celebrant and the dark coffin.

She examines everybody there; she analyses their expressions, their attitudes, every single detail, but nothing looks remarkable. John does the same, with the same disheartening result.

After a while, Giulia simply gives up and tries to pay attention to the ceremony, but she feels instantly depressed and heavy-hearted by the words of kindness pronounced in memory of Michael Chadley. _It looks like everybody loved him: no one had a reason to kill him._

A few minutes later, she eventually surrenders and whispers in John's ear, "I need to get some fresh air. I'm going for a quick stroll; I'll be back by the end of the service."

He gives her a concerned look and nods briefly, watching her walk away.

She strolls around the graves, looking down at her feet pacing the grass. When she lifts her eyes, she notices a woman standing by the exit of the cemetery, next to a row of parked cabs. She occasionally blows her nose into a tissue and quickly puts it back in her purse. She is staring at the funeral and never takes her eyes off of the coffin.

Assuming that she is attending the service from afar since she looks very upset, Giulia approaches her and pronounces kindly, "Hello. Sorry to bother you, I just wanted to inform you that if you want to pay your respects, this is the very last moment. They're burying the coffin right now."

She looks taken aback. "Oh, no, thank you. I am not attending the function. I just drove here some of the relatives of the dead; I am a taxi driver, actually," she speaks in a gravelly voice, gesturing toward the cabs to her left.

Giulia frowns for a moment: _she would swear she saw her cry_. _Although, she can't be certain now since the woman is wearing dark sunglasses that hide her eyes._

"Sure. Sorry for the misunderstanding," the girl smiles slightly.

The woman clears her throat and shrugs, "No problem. I didn't even know him."

"Neither did I. I'm just here for a friend, out of courtesy. Additionally, I hate funerals." She immediately regrets her statement and shut her mouth, giving her an apologetic look.

"Oh, I can relate. As if this weather wasn't depressing enough," the woman mutters jokingly, lifting up her eyes to the grey sky covered with leaden clouds.

At that moment, a beggar comes near the two of them and stretches his skinny hand pleading, "Any spare change?"

The woman takes her wallet out of her bag and unzips it; she hands some coins to that poor devil and he thanks her before walking away.

Giulia follows that exchange then glances at the small crowd and states, "I should go now. Have a good day."

She strides back to the place of the ceremony, walks up to the doctor and whispers, "John, I think I found our _gold_."

He snaps his head up as curiosity sparkles in his eyes, "Who?"

"Don't turn around completely, but there's a woman next to the exit,” she mumbles under her breath, nodding at the row of parked cabs.

He looks over his shoulder and furrows his brow, "No, there isn't."

"Yes, of course. I've just talked to her,” she insists and mentally sighs. _Men… why can’t they find anything by themselves?_

John keeps looking in the same direction and shakes his head, "I am sorry to differ, but there is no one there."

She whirls around, facing the exact spot where she was standing a few instants before. The woman has vanished.

* * *

** 221B Baker Street **

_Half an hour later_

"She was there, I swear I saw her. I even talked to her," Giulia exclaims, flinging open the door of 221B.

"I believe you. I'm just saying that _I_ _didn't_ see her," John replies following her into the flat.

Sherlock looks up from one of his experiments and lifts a brow, "Who did he miss?"

"A very suspicious woman," she affirms.

A sparkle of excitement darts in his eyes, but he keeps his voice neutral when he asks, "Suspicious how?"

"She was standing at the furthest end of the cemetery, yet she was clearly following the funeral. When I spoke with her, though, she denied any connection to the ceremony claiming to be a cabbie who had just driven some of the participants to the graveyard,” she resumes their encounter.

"This looks perfectly plausible to me," John retorts.

"It does. If it weren't for some details..." Giulia implies.

Sherlock tilts his head, intrigued, "For example?"

"First of all, she was wearing sunglasses in _this_ weather," she points out of the window at the leaden sky.

"Almost everybody wears sunglasses at a funeral," John intervenes.

"Exactly. Because everyone considers the possibility of weeping and prefers to keep their composure. It means that she was evidently crying, but she didn't want anyone to see it. I watched from afar before coming close: she was blowing her nose and hiding the tissue. Furthermore, when she spoke, she sounded a bit hoarse as if she had a lump in her throat because of emotion," the girl lists her observations.

"She could simply have a cold. It's November and it's freezing. Giulia, those things don't prove anything," Watson protests striving to stick to the facts.

"Even assuming that she was weeping, I don't see why it should be suspicious. As far as I know, killers don't mourn their victims," Sherlock says sarcastically.

"I wasn't accusing her of murder. I just noticed that she was acting strangely," Giulia mumbles irritated.

"It could be strange only if she was somehow connected to the deceased and was indeed in an emotional peril over his death," Sherlock notes with a sceptical look.

"Except that she wasn't. She told Giulia that she didn't know Michael Chadley," John summarises the situation for his friend.

Giulia's eyes light up. "Precisely. She said she didn't know _him_ , but I hadn't specified who was lying inside the coffin, whether a man or a woman. I am sure I didn't mention it and yet she knew. However, she wasn't even facing the headstone with the name engraved on. How do you explain this, John?"

The doctor rubs a hand over his tired face. "She said she had driven some of the participants; maybe they were Mr Chadley's relatives. They could have talked about him and his funeral during the cab ride." _He doesn't mean to belittle Giulia's intuitions, but he has the impression that she is just building castles in the air. She doesn't have any hard evidence that the mysterious woman is linked to the murder._

Giulia flashes him a cunning smile, "That's the point: that ride never happened. She lied."

Sherlock jerks his head up and frowns, "How can you tell?"

"She wasn't a taxi driver, she lied. While I was standing next to her, a beggar came asking for some spare change and she took her wallet. I stole a glance at it while she was taking some coins, and I saw an Oyster Card. What cabbie would own an Oyster Card for the public transport?" the girl underlines triumphantly.

"So, she was indeed suspicious. A crying woman attended a funeral in disguise, trying to go unnoticed. When she was approached by a stranger, she lied and assumed a false identity," Holmes sums up folding his hands underneath his chin and pacing the room.

"But if she wanted to conceal herself, why did she go to a public place during a quite public event, to begin with?" John asks bewildered.

The detective smirks at his doubt. "She couldn't miss it, apparently. The question now is: why was the burial service so important and upsetting to her?" he looks like a teacher quizzing his students.

John looks up at him, "No idea. Why?"

Sherlock rolls up his eyes, "Because she was his lover, obviously."

"Wait, what? Michael Chadley's lover?" Giulia flickers her eyelashes, surprised.

"Given the detailed information you so observantly provided – _thanks again for it; John would have never caught that_..." he addresses her, lowering his voice but still keeping it perfectly audible by the doctor who looks daggers at him. "According to your remarks, it's quite clear that the victim was having a secret affair with our ‘funeral ghost’ _._ "

"So, she kept a low profile standing at a considerable distance from the coffin because of her inappropriate connection to Chadley, but decided to attend anyway to pay her last respects to him?" Watson struggles to understand.

"Yes, John, can you believe it? Risking it all just for a heart-wrenching goodbye... How dull," he spits out in horror.

"Risking what?" Giulia frowns.

"Questioning, suspicion, maybe murder charges. In case you two forgot, we are dealing with a homicide. Whoever appears to be connected to the victim (especially with a secret and prohibited relationship like that) immediately becomes a suspect in the investigation," Sherlock explains. He sighs heavily and groans, "There's something wrong, though. I am missing something."

He walks to the window and looks down as a police car stops in front of the main door. "I get the feeling that we are not the only ones who made some progress," he pronounces while heavy footsteps echo along the staircase.

Holmes turns around to face the familiar policeman who has just appeared in the doorway. "Evening, Lestrade. Any good news on the case?"

The D.I. swallows hard and looks around the room. His eyes land on Giulia and he bites his lips, "I wouldn't say so." He moves close to her, followed by three other officers.

At that moment, a metallic clang jangles in the room as Lestrade handcuffs the girl. "Giulia Ferrini, you are under arrest for the murder of Michael Chadley."


	13. Lost in translation

When the policemen leave and take Giulia away, the room falls into an odd, muffled silence. John and Sherlock are unable to move, speak or react. They have turned into pillars of salt about to collapse.

After several seconds of stillness and shock, John shakes his head and mutters, "What has just happened?"

Sherlock keeps staring blankly into the void and murmurs in response, "Giulia got arrested."

John blinks repeatedly still trying to grasp the meaning of that scene. "Yeah, I saw that. But why?"

The detective clears his throat and replies in a seemingly indifferent tone, "Manslaughter. Possibly intentional."

John's eyes open wide as he yells, "That's crazy!"

" _These_ are the accusations they are going to charge her with. Those police officers had an arrest warrant, which means they have incriminating evidence against her. It is a very serious matter," Sherlock rebuts plainly; there is no trace of any emotion in his voice.

John takes a deep breath to clear his mind and asks hesitantly, "And how do we work it out?"

Holmes snaps his head up and frowns, "Work out _what_ , precisely? You want to fix the fact that our flatmate is a murderer?"

"You've got to be kidding me. You can't believe it," the doctor protests, looking him in the eyes.

Sherlock averts his gaze and replies bluntly, "I know it can be difficult to accept, but we have to stick to the facts."

"I couldn't agree more. The facts, Sherlock, not some _crazy fantasy_ ," his friend reprimands him, clenching his fists.

Sherlock starts to pace back and forth. "She has always acted suspiciously and this is not a figment of my imagination. You too doubted her and made me follow that girl throughout the city, remember?"

"Yes. We followed her and didn't find the slightest hint that she could be dangerous," John remarks.

"But she almost immediately noticed that we were tailing her, so that stalking chase didn't prove anything, in the end. She might have changed her plans, that day. To be precise, she did tell us that she deliberately walked for miles on end to get revenge for our mistrust," he recalls. _That was the first time she has proved to possess uncommon and intriguing skills_ , he reflects.

"I would've done the same, honestly. Also, we're talking about an event that happened over two months ago. We've been living with her for weeks; we share a flat, we spend several hours with her _every_ \- _single_ \- _day_. Do you honestly think that we wouldn't notice if she were a killer? Don't you trust your deduction skills anymore?" John teases him hoping for a reaction.

His friend glares at him, "I do. And _my skills_ " he uses the same words but in a self-deprecating tone, "are telling me that her behaviour was strange; it has always been. She practically solved the twins' case before _me_ ; she deciphered the code hidden in the crossword puzzle and understood the intentions of the terror cell. You witnessed it all. She has peculiar capabilities and is very smart."

"So now, just because she has proven to be smart, you think you have every right to believe that she committed murder, right?" Watson sounds angry and shocked.

Sherlock shrugs, "What's wrong with this? People do it all the time with me. The more an individual is clever, the more they are inclined to think he is a criminal."

John nods and exhibits his disappointed tight-lipped smile, "You're right. _People_ do it and they usually assume you're the murderer. But I never did, not even when I found you with Jennifer Wilson's suitcase, during our first case, and I had known you for less than a day, back then. Since I was able to trust you at that time, now you'll do me the favour of considering the possibility that she has been framed."

Sherlock holds his gaze for some seconds, then sighs, "I can give her the benefit of the doubt, but I want the truth and I need factual evidence."

"Very well. Find it, then."

* * *

** New Scotland Yard **

In the meantime, Lestrade escorts Giulia inside the police headquarters. When they enter the building, they bump into a female officer approximately in her thirties.

"Is she the killer?" the woman asks scrutinising her from head to toe.

" _Alleged_ killer," Giulia underlines, twitching her lips.

"This is Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade introduces her briefly, then adds, "Donovan, could you search her and confiscate every item in her possession?"

"Don't bother. I have only my phone," Giulia pulls it out of the pocket of her jeans and hands it to the policewoman who takes it warily. "You didn't give me time to collect much else when we left Baker Street," the girl comments sarcastically, simpering at Lestrade.

"Wait a minute, Baker Street? You live with Sherlock Holmes?" Sally asks startled, and Giulia simply nods.

"How appropriate! A psychopath has a killer as a flatmate: sounds like a joke," she jests.

"Sherlock is _not_ a psychopath. And I am most definitely _not_ a killer," Giulia spits out angrily.

"Calm down," Greg intervenes, gesturing her toward the holding room.

"Just a moment," she stops in the middle of the hall. "Do I have the right to make a call?"

Lestrade sighs. "Yes, you have. But make it quick," he answers, passing a hand through his greying hair.

"If I were you, I'd contact the best attorney in England," Donovan sneers.

Giulia flashes her a cunning smile, "I have something better in mind."

* * *

** Baker Street **

Sherlock's phone suddenly starts ringing. He frowns at the screen and picks up. He doesn't need to say anything; the caller talks quickly in the device without giving him time to reply. John cannot catch a single word nor the context of the conversation. He only hears Sherlock answer rather enthusiastically, "Of course, I'm on my way."

He hangs up and runs to the other side of the living room to take his coat and scarf from the coat rack.

"Who was that?" the doctor inquires confused.

Holmes beams at him, "Scotland Yard. I'm heading there right now."

John's face radiates hope as he asks, Why?"

The detective flips his collar up and shrugs as if he was talking about a casual tea with friends, "I'm going to question the prime suspect in the murder investigation."

* * *

** MI6 Headquarters **

_Almost at the same time_

Mycroft is absorbed in reading a long top-secret file when his phone rings. He glances at the screen and cocks a brow at the caller: _New Scotland Yard_.

"Hello?" he picks up with a circumspect tone.

"Good evening, Mr Ho-... I mean, Mycroft. It's Giulia, Sherlock's flatmate." He immediately recognises her voice. And, what is more, he notices that she lacks her usual lightheartedness; he spotted an anxious note in her voice.

At that precise moment, inside the police station, the girl is whispering in the receiver of one of the phones hung on the wall while stealing furtive glances around: Sergeant Donovan has walked away, and Detective Inspector Lestrade is making a call some feet away from her. She constantly looks over her shoulder to make sure he doesn't overhear her conversation.

"Yes, Giulia. Your phone call comes _unexpectedly,_ " Mycroft clears his throat to mask his surprise about the place of origin of the call.

She fakes an indifferent tone, "Am I disturbing you?"

He smiles at her unfaltering politeness, "No, don't worry. I'm just dealing with foreign affairs, international crisis, a coup: the _usual_ _stuff_. But, please, speak freely: I am eager to hear what it is about."

"I am not quite sure how to say this," she stutters, biting down her lip.

"I'm running out of time, dear," Mycroft urges her, thumbing through the report on his desk.

She takes a deep breath and articulates clearly, "I have been arrested."

Mycroft freezes.

Standing in the corridor of New Scotland Yard, she cannot hear any sound coming from the other side of the line: Mycroft doesn't even breathe in the receiver.

After several seconds, he gulps nervously and tries to regain his composure. "That's impossible," he affirms in a stentorian voice.

"I can assure you that it is more than realistic," she mutters sarcastically, lowering her eyes on her cuffed wrists. Every movement she makes is accompanied by the annoying twang of the handcuffs.

"On what charges?" his tone is resolute again.

"Manslaughter against Michael Chadley," she recounts in a bored voice.

He exhales, enraged, "Those bunglers at Scotland Yard couldn't find the killer, therefore they decided to lock up a defenceless girl, didn't they?"

"I'm not a defenceless girl," she retorts, clenching her fist.

"Obviously, but that's what they think," he scoffs, deploring every human being with an I.Q. lower than his – which makes for 99% of the world's population. "Nevertheless, it's quite clear that you are running low on resources, otherwise, you wouldn't have called me," he patronises her.

Even though she cannot see him, she would swear that he is smirking boastfully right now. "Yeah, well, I was counting on your brother to solve the murder, but I'm afraid he won't be able to handle this situation all by himself. Besides, you haven't helped him at all after he explicitly asked for your assistance," she reproaches him.

"I've been busy," he snaps back defensively.

"Fine. But this is _me_ asking you, now. I need your help. You are my last resort," she pleads.

"You must be very desperate." There isn't any conceit in his words, this time. He sounds sincerely concerned about the girl.

She clutches the handset tightly, "I am. This is my S.O.S."

"Very well, miss Giulia. I cannot guarantee you the salvation of your soul," he jokes with the meaning of the acronym she chose, "but I will ensure that your person stays out of prison. I will keep you up-to-date on my progress."

"How? I'm in custody right now," her voice drops to a whisper as she catches sight of Lestrade coming towards her out of the corner of her eye.

"I'll find a way," the oldest Holmes confidently affirms.

She smiles gratefully and murmurs in the receiver, "Thank you, Mycroft."

"My pleasure."

* * *

** New Scotland Yard **

_Twenty minutes later_

"You shouldn't be here."

Sherlock has just walked through the glass doors of New Scotland Yard when Sally Donovan _'_ welcomes _'_ him with an annoyed expression on her face.

"I've been summoned," he replies without even looking in her direction.

She frowns, "By whom?"

"Me," Lestrade interjects, strolling across the entrance hall.

She turns to him, appalled. "Really? The freak?"

Greg scowls at her, "Sergeant Donovan, this is a very delicate and complex case."

"We can handle it," she protests vehemently, causing her curls to wobble around her head.

"I know," he nods before grimacing, "But I want to be certain, so Sherlock will help question our suspect."

"He can't. He's not even a police officer," Sally's voice is boiling with anger.

"That's why _you_ will be in the interrogation room with him," he shoots her an exasperated look. _He hates it when Donovan assumes that he hasn't taken every detail into account. He is her boss, after all._

"She won't cooperate with me," Sherlock complains.

"He won't let me do my job," she snaps back, glaring at the unexpected guest.

"Okay, now listen to me, you two," Lestrade displays his inflexible fatherly tone and clears his throat, trying not to lose his temper. He turns to the stubborn detective, "Sherlock, could you please remember that Sergeant Donovan is not your assistant? She's an officer." Then he turns to face the woman and points a finger at her, "As for you, Donovan, your job consists of arresting criminals. Now, if you want to be 100% sure that the girl in that room is actually guilty, you'll trust him and his _methods_. Are we clear?" he glowers at the both of them as if he was dealing with spoilt children.

"Yes, sir," Sally reluctantly replies as Sherlock nods imperceptibly and moves to the interrogation room.

* * *

** Interrogation room **

"Sherlock! Could you please explain to me what on earth is going on?" Giulia greets him springing to her feet. Her movement causes the cuffs around her wrists to jingle against the metal table.

"First of all, I am leading the interrogation, so I will be the one who asks the questions and you will provide proper answers. Understood?" he looks sternly at her.

She tilts her head gaping at his brusque manner then smiles ironically, "Are you serious?"

"You didn't get it. I'll say that again," he begins with an icy glare.

"Okay, okay. Just get started," she sighs, sitting down and showing her hands in surrender.

Sherlock nods at the policewoman who followed him into the room. "This is Sergeant Donovan..."

"I know. We've already met," Giulia cuts him off, casting a bored look at Sally.

"Marvellous," the detective simpers at the two of them. "Let's skip to the interesting part, then. Giulia, you've been accused of the murder of Michael Chadley," he announces flatly.

"On what grounds?" she arches a brow.

"Your fingerprints were found all over the crime scene and on the corpse," Donovan answers promptly.

"Sherlock, that's impossible," she immediately objects, shifting her attention on her flatmate. "When I went there with you, I didn't even enter the room, I was standing on the threshold. I never got close to the corpse," she raises her voice.

"And you've just made your situation even worse. By affirming that you didn't touch anything in that room _when_ we got to the crime scene together, you're practically dating your fingerprints back to the time of the murder," he narrows his eyes at her. "Listen, I am quite sure that you've already been told that anything you say _can_ and _will_ be used against you. So, I kindly suggest you think it through before opening your mouth again," his tone is impassive. He is showing his game face.

"I didn't do it. I didn't kill him, I swear. I have been framed," she affirms while her voice quivers at the end of the sentence. She looks at him with watery eyes; he does not flinch or change expression.

"You have to prove it," he breathes out.

"Giulia, where were you the afternoon of November 21st?" Sally intervenes methodically.

She sits back and rests her shoulders against the chair, "At the flat."

They both give her a questioning look, waiting for further details. "You know the address," she grunts.

"This is an official interrogation," Sherlock replies unperturbed.

She rolls her eyes, "221B Baker Street."

"Were you alone?" the detective presses her.

"Yes, I was, and you know it perfectly. You were out and John had gone grocery shopping while Mrs Hudson was visiting a friend," she lists, staring right at him.

"No witnesses who could corroborate your story, then?" he cocks a brow at her, holding her gaze.

"Oh, come on! You were the one who found me by the fire when you came back home; you know I didn't commit the murder," she inveighs against the accusations.

"I found you by the fire when I came back from a two-hour walk," he specifies. "As far as I know, you could have spent your time fiddling with the flames in the fireplace or stabbing people in the back. I'll ask again: are there any witnesses who could testify in your favour?"

She stares at him for a few seconds then lowers her gaze, defeated, "No, there aren't."

"It would appear that things don't look good for you," Sergeant Donovan comments in a mocking tone.

Giulia lifts her head to look into Holmes's unreadable eyes, "Sherlock, why are we doing this?"

"It's the procedure," he answers tartly.

"No, it's not. You shouldn't question me," she objects.

"Agreed," Sally interjects irritated by their banter.

"Why are you here?" the girl asks him again.

"Because I am the only one who can prove you guilty with absolute certainty. Or innocent," he adds after a pause and shrugs as if both options had equal value.

"Do it, then. I have no motive and you have no murder weapon. The only piece of evidence that keeps us all here is some fingerprints, isn't it? How far can you go with it?" she taunts.

Sherlock snaps his head up at those words. "Where is the forensics report? I need to see it. Now," he barks at Donovan.

"You heard Lestrade: I'm not your assistant. Go get it yourself," she flares her nostrils.

The detective, in response, slouches in his chair, making himself comfortable, and retorts, "And I'm not a police officer, which means I don't have access to official reports. Come on, Sally: I am sure Anderson would be _delighted_ to see you," he alludes.

She widens her eyes at his insinuations but tries to act cool. "I don't know what you are implying. Anyway, he wasn't on forensics for this case; he is on holiday..."

"With his wife," Sherlock completes her sentence. "And that explains why you are even more annoying than usual."

At that moment, the metal table vibrates for a second as Giulia's phone receives a text. Holmes give it a confused look, "Why is her phone here?"

"They want to take it into evidence. Maybe they will be able to track me back to my _instigator,_ " Giulia ironically explains.

"Unlock it. I want to read the text," Sally harshly demands the girl. Sherlock quickly reaches for it before she can stretch her hand out, digits the code and hands it to Donovan. _His failed attempt at cracking her password still burns; he is never going to forget the code now._

"But guess what, someone has just texted you an incomprehensible message," the Sergeant raises her brows at the girl with an inquisitive gaze.

"What does it say?" he asks calmly.

"That's the point: I cannot read it. What alphabet is this?" she turns the screen to Giulia who casts a glance over it and smirks, "It's Greek."

"You know Greek?" Sherlock gapes at her.

She shrugs, "I do. I studied Ancient Greek when I was in high school. It's quite common in the Italian education system: it's not compulsory but I liked it."

"You never told us," he points out intrigued.

"You never asked," she talks back.

"Why would someone text you in Greek?" Donovan steps in to focus back on the matter at hand.

"It's a friend of mine. I tutor him and help him with his Greek classes. That's a passage of the text he has to translate. In all probability, he sent it to me for my assistance," Giulia explains casually.

"Impressive," Sherlock comments, but Sally talks over him with a distrustful voice, "Why?"

"Because Greek is an extremely difficult language, and I am an incredibly kind person," she says vaguely and fakes a smile, fed up with all those questions. "May I reply to him?"

"Absolutely not. This person could be involved in the murder and this whole story could be some sort of code," the Sergeant scowls at her.

"I suppose my charges just went from manslaughter to criminal conspiracy," Giulia jokes around.

"Why don't you tell us what the content is, then?" Sally challenges her.

"I am not able to translate on the spot. Without a dictionary, I can only understand the overall meaning." She takes the phone from her hands and reads carefully for two minutes. "It's a philosophical text, quite common in academic translations. I recognise the style and the construction of the sentence, so I would say it was written by Socrates."

"This is all very entertaining, but _unfortunately_ , we still have to carry on with the investigation," Sherlock cuts it short. "Donovan, the forensics report: I need it," he glowers at her.

She grumbles but stands up reluctantly and leaves the room. As soon as the door slams behind her back, he stares at Giulia, "Why did you lie?"

"What are you talking about?" she puts on the most innocent face she is capable of.

"You said that the Greek text was written by Socrates, but that's impossible since he never wrote a single word about his thoughts," he points out, earning a smile from her.

"I am impressed. It turns out you aren't so ignorant of philosophy, are you?"

"I must have stored it somewhere inside my mind palace. I've always been interested in ancient philosophers, actually; it kind of runs in the family," he shrugs.

"I was counting on it," she grins.

"Now answer quickly, we don't have long. Why did you lie?" he presses her.

"Because I wanted to see if you could spot the clue and try to have a moment with me, alone," she can't stop smirking. _She can't believe that her improvised plan worked out so smoothly._

"Oh please, I am Sherlock Holmes," his tone sounds conceited. "What do you want from me?"

"To exonerate me," she quickly replies.

He tightens his jaw. _They both know that it wasn't exactly was he was doing. If anything, it looked like he was trying to confirm her charges_. "How?"

"Mycroft will help you," she affirms.

Sherlock lifts a brow, surprised, "What about him?"

"He was the real author of that text. I called him when I got arrested," she drums her fingers on the desk, enjoying his shocked expression.

"You called _Mycroft_?" he goggles at her. _No one in their sane mind would ever bother his brother with a phone call. Even he himself does it rarely – and he loves pestering him._

"Yes. I assumed that thanks to his _connections_ he could be of help," she answers candidly.

 _Not only she lied about the content of the text, but she also invented the whole story regarding an imaginary friend and his Greek classes. How could she come up with that cover so quickly? That was quite clever_ , he reluctantly admits to himself.

"And why does he text you in Greek now?" Sherlock struggles to understand. _He hates it when things do not immediately appear obvious to him._

"I needed to know how his search for a way of acquitting me was going. He chose this language because there must be some bad cops here that set me up, and we don't know who can be trusted. He didn't want that text to be public," Giulia explains, hinting at Donovan.

"Why? What did he write?" he urges her again.

"He found an interesting document that can clear my name. He'll send it to you. You just have to tell him where."

Sherlock quickly fishes his phone out of his coat pocket and texts his brother.

_ St Barth's. _

\- _SH_

He lifts his eyes from the screen and stares at her, perplexed, "Wait a minute, how did he know you could read the Greek alphabet?"

"I showed it to him. When we were in his office, I asked him if he knew himself. Do you remember that moment?" she teases him.

"Distinctly," he sighs annoyed.

"I was just translating the engraving at the bottom of his Socrates's bust: _γνῶθι σαυτό_ ν which means ' _know thyself_ '. He already knew the meaning of the engraving, of course, but at that moment he realised I could read and translate from Greek. Not a difficult deduction, after all," she comments with a satisfied smirk.

Sherlock stands up unable to take his eyes off her: _she is an even greater mystery than the case itself._

Suddenly, the door thrusts open, and Sally steps in while holding the forensics report. Sherlock quickly snatches it from her hands and flicks through it. His eyes stop on a single line. **SCIENTIST:** _Albert Kane_ **.**

He frowns at the name. _Something's not right._

"Got to go now," he smiles falsely at the sergeant and walks out the room.

"What? Are you seriously leaving?" she is enraged and disoriented.

He shrugs, "Urgent business. Matter of life and death. I'm guessing the latter."

"Where?" she asks indignantly.

He simpers, "To the morgue."


	14. Death sentence

"Good Lord, what did he ever do to you?" a female voice inquires with an unexpected sardonic undertone.

Molly Hooper, a pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, enters the morgue right when Sherlock pokes a scalpel into the back of a dead man lying on the slab. He meticulously sticks the blade into the flesh from different angles, then pulls it out and leans forward to examine the wound he has just caused. She stares at him in awe, slightly horrified at his barbarian methods but incapable of taking her eyes off him.

" _A huge favour_ , since he donated his body to science – which basically means to yours truly, thus enabling me to do some research about my newest case," he replies deeply focused on his experiments.

"And how is t-this case going?" Molly stutters timidly in an attempt to make small talk.

Sherlock straightens up and speaks at impossible speed, "I'd say pretty well. A wealthy man died under mysterious circumstances: no enemies, no motives, no murder weapon. So, _apparently_ , there were no suspects. All of a sudden, though, an enigmatic woman, most likely his lover, showed up at his funeral, making this jigsaw puzzle more intricate. And eventually my flatmate Giulia was accused of the murder and she doesn't have an alibi."

"What?" her eyes instantly widen in shock as she covers her mouth with one hand.

"I've just explained everything. Molly, please, keep up," he rolls his eyes and stabs the corpse again.

She shakes her head, bewildered, "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

"Proving a point,” he replies unfazed.

She raises a brow, "What point?"

He studies the marks on the cadaver and smirks, "Either the murderer is a very talented contortionist, or something is wrong."

She cannot believe that; despite the upsetting incarceration of his flatmate, his whole attention is currently focused on some impossible deadly manoeuvres. Yet, she can't help but ask, "Such as?"

"Michael Chadley was murdered with a blow in the back, between the ribs. At the crime scene, I deduced he was standing when he was stabbed and then collapsed onto his chair. I am 100% sure of my deductions, but there are some inconsistencies I'm trying to solve. Firstly, it would be impossible to hit someone in the back through the thick seatback of a leather chair, so we can be certain that he was standing and not sitting when he was stabbed. Now, here's the problem: he had no reason to stand up as he was immersed in his work — the number of cigarettes in his ashtray revealed his stress and dedication,” the detective recalls even the tiniest details from the victim’s studio.

"Maybe he wanted to stretch his limbs? You just said that he had been sitting for long hours; maybe he wanted to give a boost to the blood circulation in his legs," Molly tentatively suggests like a shy kid answering in front of the whole class.

"Possibly, but then we have another issue: how could the murderer accurately predict when to kill him?" he nervously paces the room, leaning his folded hands against his lips.

Molly strives to follow his reasoning process, "Are you assuming that the killer was waiting for the right time to strike? Wouldn't it be easier to just enter the room, threaten him and make him stand up?"

He gives her a condescending look, "You are forgetting that the entry wound was on his back. What you theorise is incoherent. Just think: if you _wanted_ to stab someone — since in your little scenario you were clearly referring to a premeditated crime indicating hate or anger, would you pass up the opportunity to hit the person right on the front while facing them?"

She shivers refusing to imagine herself in such a disturbing situation. "So you think the killer sneaked behind his back, waited for him to stand up, and pierced him?" she inquires visibly confused at the illogicality of that option.

"No, of course, I don't, it makes no sense. By the way, there wasn't enough room for two people behind the wooden desk: it was too close to the bookshelf," his hands float in the air as he mentally rebuilds the plan of the study. "Nobody could slip behind Mr Chadley and stab him to death; it was too narrow. Having said that, the only logical explanation is that he was facing his murderer. But that would mean that..." he stops dead in his tracks.

Suddenly, the consequences of his observations strike him. "The victim knew his killer," Molly gives voice to his unspoken conclusion, managing to follow his train of thought.

The gears in Sherlock's mind start to run wildly, like an engine at full throttle, and he finally connects some of the dots, _"That's_ why there was no sign of struggle: he didn't try to defend himself because he didn't think he was in danger. He knew his killer," he repeats Molly’s words.

She frowns, "I don't understand, though. You said that he was struck in the back. H-how could the killer hit him _there_ while standing in front of him?"

"That's exactly what I was trying to figure out by reproducing the same lethal wound on this corpse," Sherlock mumbles turning the lifeless body around in a prone position. He bends over the mortuary table and slides his arm under the torso of the dead man until his fingers reach the wound on his back. This simple movement rings a bell in his mind and he lifts his head. "Mr Chadley was _hugging_ his assassin, and she hit him while they were still locked in that death grip."

Molly furrows her brow, "I'm sorry, _she_?"

"The killer is obviously a woman," he shrugs as if he expected it to be common knowledge already.

"How do you..."

"The depth of the wound," Sherlock abruptly cuts her off. "That was the easiest deduction. At the crime scene, I examined the slash and I can affirm that, despite the probable heavy weight of the murder weapon, the killer didn't apply great pressure."

"Out of pity?" the pathologist ventures.

The detective shakes his head disappointed, "No, no, no. Killers never feel compassion for their victims while they are murdering them. They might feel guilt and remorse afterwards. But no, it wasn't an act of mercy. Conclusion: the killer is a woman, statistically more likely given the lesser strength."

The pathologist struggles to keep up with all the news. After considering Sherlock's explanation, she tilts her head and asks, "Does this mean that your flatmate is, in fact, guilty?"

"So it would seem. Although, the position of the wound tells another story..." he trails off as he hears the sound of footsteps approaching along the corridor.

A couple of seconds later, a man in a black suit pokes his head through the door of the morgue. "Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, it's me," he waves his hand. The man passes him a folder containing some documents, nods at the two of them, and leaves discreetly without another word.

Molly stares confused at the door that just closed behind the mysterious figure, "Who was that?"

Sherlock doesn't even raise his gaze from the folder and leafs through the pages, replying absentmindedly, "One of Mycroft's minions, erm, I mean _employees_."

"And what's that?" Molly furrows a brow, pointing at the document.

"A contract from fifteen years ago, when Michael Chadley signed his own death sentence, basically,” he affirms calmly then slams the folder shut and shoots her a cunning smile, "It's his prenup."

* * *

** New Scotland Yard **

_ Half an hour later _

"Sherlock, where have you been?" Lestrade approaches the detective as he walks through the glass doors of Scotland Yard. The black circles under the D.I. weary eyes make him look him even more distressed than usual.

"Collecting evidence for your investigation, Detective Inspector,” it’s his curt response.

"And what happened to our agreement about you interrogating the suspect?" Greg asks, narrowing his eyes at him.

"I did," he flatly replies.

"And?" Lestrade encourages him.

"And I suggest you get in that room with me, this time,” Sherlock shoots him an eloquent glance.

Greg sighs heavily, "Why?"

"Do you want to miss the final verdict?" Sherlock smiles slyly. He doesn't have to ask twice; Lestrade follows him and Donovan inside the interrogation room.

As he steps in, Giulia lifts her gaze on her flatmate and smirks, "I can't wait to know if you're sending me to jail for the rest of my life."

"Don't tempt me," he retorts, smirking back.

"What did you find out?" Lestrade intervenes.

Sherlock clears his throat and looks straight into his eyes as his baritonal voice echoes in the room, "Are you paying attention?"

The inspector nods quickly, and the detective begins to talk in his rapid-fire manner, "According to an accurate analysis that I have just conducted in the morgue, Mr Chadley was struck in the back by a woman. More specifically, he was hugging his killer only seconds before the fatal blow."

Both the police officers turn to face him, a shocked expression on their faces, "Hugging?"

"Yes, that was the only physical way in which the murderer could reach his back to deliver the mortal blow,” he explains clinically.

Greg frowns still trying to understand, "I'll take your word for that. How does it help us, anyway?"

Sherlock doesn't reply, but simply slides across the metal table a pen and the sheet of paper usually employed for writing and signing confessions, "Giulia, could you please write down these two words: _not guilty_?"

"Does it mean she's not, then?" Lestrade inquires briskly.

"Shut up and _look_ ," the detective nods at the girl. Giulia takes the pen and jots down those words in clear handwriting.

"Perfect," Sherlock claps his hands. "Now it's quite obvious that she didn't commit the murder," he smiles confidently.

Donovan and Lestrade shake their heads simultaneously, and the latter rubs his temples, "No, it really isn't."

"Did you take a good look while she was writing? She's right-handed,” the detective points out as if that alone was a thorough explanation.

"Yes, I _saw_ that, but I fail to see the relevance," Greg spits through gritted teeth.

"Can you remember precisely where the lethal wound was located?" Sherlock questions hi, crossing the arms on his chest. Now he looks like a cop interrogating a felon.

Lestrade thinks for a few seconds and replies, "On the right side of the victim's back, between his ribs."

"Very good. All I ask from you is just a little stretch of the imagination: given the frankly not too slim build of the victim, the position of the wound and the fact that the killer hit him in the middle of a hug, we can assume that the murderer was left-handed," Sherlock clarifies searching the inspector's face for the slightest sign of brain activity.

Greg's eyes instantly light up, "Oh, you are saying that considering his massive body size, a right-handed person hugging him could never stretch their arms far enough to hit him on his right side. This means Giulia couldn't have killed him."

"Two correct answers in a row: I'm touched," he smiles falsely at the officer who looks daggers at him.

"You can let her go now: she couldn't possibly strike the victim in that specific spot on his back. The angle is simply impossible," Holmes remarks.

"Slow down," Sally interjects. "We don't know if this is what really happened. Things might have been different," she does not hide her mistrust.

"No, they couldn't. There wasn't enough room for two people behind the desk, and Mr Chadley would have no reason to stand up and turn his back randomly. This is the only possible dynamics," Sherlock articulates annoyed at her scepticism towards his post-mortem experiments.

"Alright, but we cannot disregard the incriminating evidence of her fingerprints. How do you explain that?" Sally inquires scornfully.

"The forensics report will reply to your question," Sherlock leans back in his chair and casually intertwines his hands behind his nape in a relaxed position.

Donovan opens her eyes wide, "You mean the very document that nails her?"

He nods peacefully, "It was signed by forensic scientist Albert Kane, right?"

"Yeah, you saw him at the crime scene: tall bloke with ginger hair," Lestrade describes the policeman.

"I remember him. He offered me a cup of tea. It was kind of him," Giulia chimes in, smiling.

Sherlock gives her a sneering glance, "It would have been even kinder if he hadn't used that cup to acquire your fingerprints and plant them all over the crime scene."

"What?" Giulia and Greg burst out at the same time.

"Not too tough a job for a forensics scientist, actually. He gave you a hard, smooth surface on which you left your fingerprints. When you put down the cup, he simply used it to frame you and fill the report to charge you with murder," Sherlock explains.

"I can't believe it," the girl exclaims indignantly.

Greg frowns, "Neither can I, honestly. Would you please provide a further explanation?"

"Giulia, did you have a fever on November 21st, the day Michael Chadley was killed?" Sherlock addresses the girl changing the subject completely. Every single person in the room turns to him, starting to question his sanity.

She gives him a curious look, "No, I didn't."

"Are you sure? No symptoms?" he tries again with a hint of sarcasm. It is quite clear that he is trying to prove a point, and he cannot help but enjoy how he moves them from pillar to post in his reasoning.

"No, Sherlock, it was freezing outside. Had I been ill, I would have never gone out in such cool weather just to escort you to a crime scene. Why do you ask?" she exhales irritated.

He smiles at her, "Because there are two odd things in that forensic report. First one: the bad quality of the fingerprinting. The report only contains blurred images, enough to match your prints, but still not of the highest quality."

"Sometimes it happens: it isn't always possible to acquire perfect images," Sergeant Donovan promptly objects, defending police procedures.

Sherlock simpers at her, "Indeed. Do you know why it happens, though? It's very simple: it depends on the presence of condensate interlaid between the finger and the surface it comes into contact with — sweaty hands could leave blurry prints, for example. Now, Giulia's fingerprints on the report appear quite smudged, why is that?” he rhetorically asks before providing the answer, “We can assume, as I just did, that she had a fever, and her body temperature was high enough to produce perspiration stains on her fingertips. And yet she wasn't showing any symptoms: no burning hot skin, no excessive sweat. Please be advised that I'm not basing it all on the suspect's own statement; I was there, I'm quite the observant man so I would have noticed if something was off with her that day. Not to mention that a doctor was also in the room," he adds with a faint smile, referring to John.

"Alright, so if it wasn't the sweat that caused the blurry fingerprints, what did?" Lestrade scratches the back of his neck, getting frustrated.

"I'm glad you asked. If we exclude the possibility that the blur was caused by burning hot skin coming in contact with a room temperature surface, we might consider the opposite: the surface was steaming, quite literally. In fact, if we suppose that condensed liquid similar to perspiration is also produced by the contact of a finger with a hot surface, we can deduce that Giulia left blurry fingerprints on the piping hot cup of tea that Albert Kane _so generously_ offered her at the crime scene,” he concludes with a sneer.

Silence falls in the room as everyone tries to process that information. Lestrade swallows hard and stares into Sherlock's eyes, "What is the second suspicious thing about the report?"

"The methods of fingerprints detection were always the same for both those detected on the hard surface of the furniture in the study and those found on the flesh of the body. However, Inspector, you are certainly aware that this is not true; it doesn't work like that. The police use different specific methods for every situation. In all probability, the reason why we can only see one kind of fingerprints on that report is that it was all Mr Kane had: just one detection from the ceramic cup. To sum up, either your scientist is utterly unqualified, or he is an accomplice to this murder. I am more persuaded it is the latter,” he smiles smugly.

"And why would he do that?" Sally blurts out.

"Because of the most obvious detail on the forensics report, the clearest warning bell. When I first read it, my eyes fixed on that name: Albert Kane. It sounded oddly familiar and I immediately remembered where I had already heard, or rather _read_ that name. I recalled an image, a frame: the wedding invitation hung on the wall of the living room at the victim's house. As per tradition, there were their full names on it: _Mr Michael Damian Chadley and Ms Lilian Ann Kane_\- her maiden name."

He lifts his eyes on the three people in the room. "In conclusion, all Albert Kane wanted to do was cover up for his sister, the real killer: Mrs Chadley."

"Sherlock, are you sure?" Lestrade passes a hand through his greying hair exhaling deeply. _Clearing Giulia's name is one thing, but jumping to conclusions and accusing the victim's wife is another story._

The consulting detective raises a brow with an annoyed face, "Yes, I am. When I read Albert's last name on the report, I knew something was wrong; the two of them were somehow kin. Next step was quite easy: same name, similar age, almost identical hair colour... _brother and sister_ , of course." He stands up to pace the small room, "So, ultimately, the only incriminating evidence against Giulia is a report signed by the brother of the victim's wife. A bit suspicious, isn't it?"

"Yes, but that would mean that Mrs Chadley..."

"Killed her husband," Sherlock quickly completes Greg's sentence. "We finally got there," he exclaims relieved.

Donovan furrows her brow, "And how can you tell that?"

"Do you honestly want me to explain _everything_?" Sherlock sighs even if he is secretly pleased to show off a bit: _it passes the time and dispels boredom._

"She is a _woman_ Michael knew very well, and he definitely would have hugged her, feeling completely safe in her arms. How naïve," he spits out, rolling his eyes. "But there's another clue: she is _left-handed_. I saw her signing a delivery receipt when I was at her house; I remember noticing the polished nails of her left hand. She perfectly fits the profile of the murderer,” he lists methodically.

Lestrade rubs a hand on his forehead, "She has some matching characteristics, I'll give you that. But it isn't enough to accuse her. You'll have to give me something more than her gender or dominant hand."

"How about a motive?" the detective smirks. The inspector jerks his head up giving Sherlock his full attention, then gestures for him to continue.

"Michael Chadley had a lover and his wife found out he was cheating on her,” the detective stands up and paces the room. 

"Was it just an act of revenge against her unfaithful husband in the end?" Greg asks unconvinced.

"Oh, please, you've seen her, Does she really look like the kind of woman who would react driven by uncontrolled jealousy?" the detective shoots him boastful look.

"Why did she do it, then?" Donovan inquires, still sceptical.

He shrugs, "Why does anyone do anything? Money, simple as that."

"Are you serious?" she gapes at him.

 _Sally is definitely not an easy person to convince of anyone’s guilt. Except when it comes to Giulia, apparently. She never really questioned the girl’s involvement in the homicide_ , Sherlock mentally analyses, wrinkling his nose at her bias.

"We are talking about a large sum of money, here. Hundreds of millions, probably, judging by the dimensions of his empire," the detective estimates, leaning a shoulder against the wall.

"But she was already married to him," Lestrade bursts out. "She had free access to the bank accounts and her husband entirely supported her. You've been to their house: it's a bloody mansion in a residential area of London. She already had all the money she needed and even more. You're not making any sense, Sherlock."

"Yes, she _had_ everything, and she couldn't risk losing it all. When she realised her husband was in love with another woman, she understood that their marriage was ending. It was a bolt from the blue, given the document she had signed before getting married,” he drops the hint allusively.

The D.I. looks as if he is about to slam his fist on the table out of despair: _having to put up with Sherlock's deductions and attitude should be considered a full-time job._

"What are you talking about now?" he sighs.

"Oh, Mr Chadley was a wise man. He was a rich entrepreneur who decided to marry a divorced, broke woman: he took his precautions against the possibility of fraud. He probably believed that Lilian truly loved him, but he was a businessman, after all: he wasn't inclined to blind leaps of faith. For this reason, a few days before their wedding, he made her sign a prenup where it was stated that, in the case of divorce – _whatever the reason was_ , she would get almost nothing of his fortune. Now, it is easily understandable why Mrs Chadley panicked when she discovered Michael's lover. Had he become too involved in that relationship, he could have dumped her and tried to obtain a divorce. She thought she had no choice but to dispose of him _permanently_ ,” he has to bite down on his lips to prevent himself from smirking constantly.

He takes a breath before he starts talking up a blue streak, "She went to his study and gave him a loving embrace. Well, maybe not so _loving_..." this time he has to restrain himself from giggling while talking about murder. "She pierced him in the back and left his dead body on the chair, then she slipped out of the room. That's where Albert Kane came in. His sister called him confessing that she had just killed her husband and asking for help. I am sure she offered him a fair share of the inheritance to convince him. You know the rest: he came with you to the crime scene and met us. What a stroke of luck for him! He probably figured out I wasn't a suitable target and he excluded John, too. Giulia was his best bet, eventually: a young girl who couldn't object to the hard evidence of her fingerprints on a crime scene where nobody had seen her even walk in."

The girl gapes at him unable to control her astonishment and rage.

"How do you know he was cheating on her, by the way?" Donovan intervenes.

"His lover attended his funeral from afar. It's not hard to understand why she hid pretending to be there by chance. She wanted to conceal her identity and attachment to the dead, of course, but she also feared some sort of revenge and was afraid the killer could target her too. Giulia met her during the burial,” he adds casually.

"Are we basing the whole reconstruction of this crime on the testimony of our main suspect about an imaginary ghost?" Sally asks disdainfully.

Sherlock glowers at her and retorts, "Giulia is no longer a suspect, I thought it was clear. Anyway, his lover is real; there are some signs you failed to spot. First of all, had you taken a look at Michael's photos in his house, you would've clearly seen that Mr Chadley had no dress sense: he was decently dressed only on his wedding day. But did you notice the suit he was wearing when he was murdered? Famous brand, elegant, impeccable: completely different from his previous taste. Furthermore, a few days before his death, he bought a box full of new ties that were delivered right when we were standing at the crime scene. Don't you see it? He felt loved and cherished by his lover, so he started to see himself in a different light. He was making an effort and tried to improve his image in the eyes of his mistress. He felt more confident; I imagine it must be a _side effect_ of love,” he snorts.

Giulia chuckles at his choice of words, and Lestrade nods almost satisfied, "Okay, you've been very clear. However, there is still one missing piece: the murder weapon was never found."

"Because it was never hidden. It was in the house, but none noticed. Fortunately, Giulia helped me see it,” he winks at her.

The girl raises her gaze on him, a surprised look on her face, "Me?"

"Do you remember when I mocked you in front of the huge fireplace of that house? I was reminded of our little joke while leaving the scene. At that moment, I stole a glance at it and stored the image in my mind palace. When I was performing my experimental autopsy at St Barth's one hour ago, I was thinking about the wound and what could have possibly provoked it. I had already given the inspector my preliminary analysis at the crime scene: a heavy, rusty object. There was nothing of that kind in his study but something similar was indeed in the house, in front of the fireplace. I dug up the image of the fire tools from my memory and noticed that only the poker was recently washed."

"It has been very cold these days: maybe they lit a fire, then cleaned it?" Lestrade suggests.

"Nope. That fireplace hasn't been used in years, believe me; I know ash. In conclusion, I am quite sure Mrs Chadley pierced her husband with the poker of their fireplace. This would also explain the jagged edges of the lethal wound and the traces of rust in it: iron tools tend to deteriorate as time goes by," Sherlock states confidently.

"So you were able to recall your memories of their house and noticed the brightness of the poker in contrast with the other old tools because Mrs Chadley thoroughly cleaned it to wipe her husband's blood off it?" Lestrade asks, feeling victorious: the umpteenth question of the day has found an answer.

"Exactly. I think we are done here. Thank you for this fascinating case. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going home,” he announces walking to the door, but then turns around as if he forgot something, and addresses Giulia in a sarcastic tone, "Are you coming?"


	15. Lie detector

"Look who honours us with his presence," Sherlock exclaims in fake surprise and an edge of disdain.

In the middle of Scotland Yard's lobby, Mycroft Holmes is leaning casually on a black umbrella. As he sees his little brother stepping out of the interrogation room, he straightens up and moves closer.

"Hello, brother mine. I've heard you solved the murder, in the end _,_ " an undertone of sarcasm veils his voice.

"I did. Why are you here, other than to spoil my fun?" his sibling scowls at him.

"Mycroft!" Giulia cries out, walking towards him with a wide smile. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I could say the same about you," he replies, looking around the police station with disapproval.

She chuckles and stretches out a hand, "Thank you for your invaluable help."

He shakes it firmly, "Anytime."

"Oh wait, it's _obvious_. You wanted to check on Giulia – the girl who called you from a prison cell," Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"It was merely a holding room," his brother retorts, jumping to her defence.

"Ignore him. He is just jealous because you instantly replied to my distress call, but dismissed his request,” Giulia addresses the elder, disparaging Sherlock’s insinuations. “Now, I'll leave you to your sibling moment," she winks at them. "Sherlock, I'll wait for you outside. Thanks again, Mycroft, and apologies for all the trouble that I may have caused you. Have a nice night,” she waves at him and steps away.

They watch as she walks through the glass doors, then Sherlock cocks a brow, "Should I believe that you found your damsel in distress?"

His brother looks daggers at him and rebuts, "Is this a childish plea for my attention?"

"No, it's a warning,” the detective’s voice drops to a deep note.

Mycroft turns his head to him with an interrogative look, "About what?"

Sherlock shoots him an eloquent glance and spells out, "Disadvantage, brother dear."

Mycroft grunts, "Don't be silly. You think you can see through everything, but I must tell you: you are in thick fog, in this case,” he teases him with a smirk. _Torturing his little brother by highlighting his obliviousness gives him some subtle contentment._

"What are you implying? What is it about?" he eagerly questions him.

"You'll find out in due time,” it’s his enigmatic response. “After all, I thought you'd like a little puzzle," his older brother taunts him. "Now, if you'll pardon me, I am here on important business. Good night, brother mine."

He walks away, swinging his umbrella and approaches Lestrade. "Detective Inspector, I trust that you'll deal with this unfortunate hitch in the best possible way," states he peremptorily without even bothering to greet him.

"No need to worry, sir. Everything's under control," the Scotland Yard's detective affirms confidently.

" _Everything_?" Mycroft frowns disappointed. "You don't seem to understand: this whole thing _never_ _happened_. Are we clear?" his burning eyes fulminate the policeman.

Greg clears his throat and gulps nervously, "Yes, sir."

"No record of any kind," Mycroft insists.

Lestrade scratches his chin with his thumb, uncomfortable with that conversation, "Well, you see, this is not the way we do it..."

"It is now," Mycroft doesn't even blink. He simply slips a hand inside the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, handing it to him.

The inspector takes it and skims the text immediately turning pale. "No records at all," he confirms, nodding vigorously.

Sherlock scrutinises the scene from afar and scowls at the ambiguity of the sudden change of attitude on the part of Lestrade. Then he shakes his head, putting aside any suspicious thought and steps out into the cold air. Giulia is waiting for him on the pavement.

It's a chilly night, but they decide to walk back home.

* * *

After several minutes of utter silence, the girl breaks the ice, "You still don't believe me, do you?"

He doesn’t turn in her direction but keeps staring ahead, "You're wrong. I know you didn't commit that murder."

She instantly catches a whiff of distrust in his words, _"That_? So you think that I could actually commit one, that I'd be able to kill?"

He looks into the distance, "I highly doubt it..."

"Yet you are not sure," her voice is firm, calm: no anger, no disappointment, no sadness. She is just stating the facts.

He sighs and turns around to look at her, "The first time we met at 221B, I thought I knew everything about you. I deduced every single detail; there was nothing left to discover. And I was absolutely sure of it. Nevertheless, in my life, I've learnt the hard way that I can be wrong, too. It doesn't happen too often, but it's a... possibility _,_ " he wrinkles his nose confronted with the evidence that he, too, is human. "What I'm trying to say is, I would like to be sure about you, but at the same time, I don't want to be cocky and underestimate the person in front of me."

She nods then smiles, "I am not a murderer, by the way."

"Good to know,” he scoffs.

They start walking again spending a few more minutes deep in thought, then Sherlock speaks again, "As much as it pains me to admit it, part of this situation is on me. I shouldn't have brought you to the crime scene, in the first place. Even though I expected you to be smarter than that; getting framed by that guy... I mean, seriously?" he raises a brow at her, and she shrugs defensively, "He seemed nice and polite. How could I suspect him? He was with the police. Shouldn't they be the most trustworthy guys on a crime scene?"

He takes a deep breath, choosing his words with care. _He would have much to say about trust._ "It is often the people no one would ever grow suspicious of, who are the very ones no one should trust,” he affirms cryptically.

She ponders his statement for a couple of seconds then infers, "You don't trust me."

"I don't _blindly_ trust you, no,” he specifies.

She nods and declares serenely, "Good, that's good."

He grimaces giving her a side glance, "That's not what people normally say."

She looks back at him with a smug expression, "And what do people normally say?"

"Something like _I won't hurt you_ ," Sherlock theorises, ill at ease with standardised social behaviour.

"I _definitely_ won't hurt you,” she repeats emphatically. “Or John,” she adds. “Look, Sherlock, trust me or not: I will understand you either way. But if you have questions, just ask. I'm right here."

"Who are you?" he bursts out coming to a grinding halt.

She stops in front of him and fixes her eyes in his, "My name is Giulia. I'm Italian and I am a student at London University. I live at 221C Baker Street."

He raises a mocking brow, "I didn't need the last bit."

"But you did, actually,” she disagrees. “It was your most certain reference. I gave you one fact whose truthfulness you are completely sure of so that you could study my reactions in front of the truth, searching my face, my eyes for the slightest twitch. Now you can accurately establish whether the other things were true or false. It's the same principle on which the polygraph test is based; you start by asking the subject some information you already possess just to know how they deal with true statements."

"How do you know that?" he asks startled.

She smirks and turns around, dodging the question. "What are my results, detective? What did you deduce from my presentation?" her voice almost gets lost in the wind as she walks up the street.

He follows suit, "Everything was true."

"Very observant. Giulia is, in fact, my real name,” she confirms.

"But Ferrini is not your last name,” he logically concludes.

"No, it's my new identity, but that's irrelevant. I asked and obtained to keep my first name. I still wanted to be myself,"she cannot hide a trace of pain in her voice.

They walk side by side, without touching, without looking at each other. It feels like there is a gulf between them.

"What else?" Sherlock inquires after a while.

"I do go to university and I am Italian. You correctly deduced those two things during our first meeting. Congratulations: you can still trust your capabilities,” she jokes around.

"But I was wrong about one detail: you aren't an exchange student that came to London to have a new exciting experience,” he reproaches himself.

She sighs heavily, "It's a matter of perspective. In a way, I did come here to change my life."

He puckers his lips, "This is a half-truth."

Giulia looks up at him with a tight-lipped smile, "It's better than a whole lie, isn't it? That's just one side of the story."

He makes one logical assumption, "You were on the run. But why, or rather, _who_ were you running away from?"

She replies vaguely, "Bad people."

"That's not very specific,” he points out, slightly annoyed at her haziness.

"Because that's not a story I am very willing to tell. I told you the truth: I wanted to change my life,” she averts her gaze, fighting against a lump in her throat.

"No, you _needed_ to," he specifies, studying her every move, the furrow between her eyebrows, her clenched fists hidden inside the pockets of her coat.

"Does it make any difference? Now I am here, I've settled in, and I intend to stay. My backstory is quite a complicated one. Please, don't bother asking: I'll tell you everything when I'm ready. Is it good enough for you?" her tone is pleading.

He stares at her for a long instant. _No, of course, it isn't. He is Sherlock Holmes: he must always know everything. But he cannot say that to her face: it wouldn't be considered kind or nice or socially acceptable, would it? He has to respect her, respect her space and her silence. He doesn't even have to understand or be empathetic. He just needs to wait and give her time. That's what people do, don't they? They protect their friends from pain, whether it comes from an external menace or painful memories._

He doesn’t reply directly but simply asks, "How did you know about that lie detector trick?"

"Because I spent some time with experts who knew that sort of stuff," she shrugs dismissively. He glances at her waiting for further explanation; she narrows her eyes at him feeling cornered and surrenders, "When you have to survive in deep waters, you need to learn how to swim among sharks."

"You've been _trained by those experts,_ " he instantly interprets the obscure meaning of her metaphor.

"Sort of. Only on defence techniques, by the way,” she reassures him. _She is a warrior but she is not one to start a fight._

He seems taken aback for a moment, "Why?"

"It was my choice. I've always hated violence, I'm not the one who strikes first, but I know how to protect myself... most of the time," she adds in a playful tone, cursing her carelessness that almost got her jailed, and trying to lighten the mood.

Sherlock appears satisfied with that answer and remains silent for the rest of the stroll.

* * *

As they are approaching 221 Baker Street, Giulia whispers, "I wanted to thank you for what you did, by the way."

He breathes out nonchalantly, "I was just doing my job."

"But..."

"The fact that you are my flatmate didn't affect my judgement. If you were guilty, I would have sealed your sentence," he cuts her short.

"Sure," she laughs, even though she knows that he is deadly serious. He is not the charitable type; all he looks for is the truth, be it pleasant or brutal, it doesn’t matter.

He unlocks the front door and they step in. She stops in front of the door of 221C while he starts climbing the stairs.

"It was kind of you, anyway," she murmurs at his back.

He turns around to face her from the first flight of stairs. "It's been _effective_ ," he corrects her, and she nods with a faint smile turning the key in the lock.

"Don't do it again, please," Sherlock mumbles as she is about to cross the threshold of her apartment.

She spins around and smirks, "What? Thanking you?"

"Being charged with murder. That's so _inconvenient_."


	16. Houston, we have a three-patch problem

It has been a week since Giulia's release and everything is back to normal at Baker Street... well, as normal as it gets, anyway.

Nonetheless, Sherlock is often in a bad mood and he has become even more unmanageable than usual. It isn't utterly surprising, though, given the fact that he has just solved a crime, which basically means that he is eager to find another one. However, the latest case was surely an intricate, fascinating one and John hoped it would appease him for a while. On the contrary, it has had the opposite effect, apparently: the consulting detective is more restless than ever.

Surprisingly enough, though, he is experiencing one of his rare quiet moments at the moment, lying peacefully on the couch while Giulia reads a book curled up on one of the armchairs. Suddenly, he presses the palm of his right hand on his left forearm and lets out a deep moan.

Giulia snaps her head up and frowns at him. She stares at his arms and nods at the strange sticking plasters, "What are those?"

"Nicotine patches."

"I thought you gave up smoking."

"I am not _smoking_ , in fact."

She narrows her eyes, "When?"

He furrows his brows, "When what?"

"I had never seen those patches before, so it must be a recent habitude or maybe a relapse. Anyway, when did you resort to nicotine?" she inquires in a slightly concerned tone.

"When you had the _brilliant_ idea of getting yourself arrested. I needed to find a way to let you out," he tries to justify himself.

"Don't even try to pin this on me!" she growls at him.

"I was simply recalling the facts: hadn't you got yourself locked up by Scotland Yard officers, I probably wouldn't have needed them. Nicotine just helps me think and it came in handy in such a situation."

"Oh, and I bet your lungs are _so immensely_ grateful," she rebuts ironically.

"Lungs are not the organs for thinking. Do study a bit of anatomy!"

She rolls her eyes. _It is impossible to talk to him these days. He hardly ever addresses her and when he is forced to, his tone is harsh and angry. It looks like he hasn't forgiven her for something, though she hasn't the slightest idea what for._

At that moment, John comes downstairs from his bedroom and heads toward the kitchen to make some tea. He comes out a moment later, ordering peremptorily, "Sherlock, take your coat. We're going out!"

"Really? Did you find a case?" he springs to his feet enthusiastically.

"Sure. An irresponsible madman who starved his two flatmates to death. It was _your week_ to do the shopping."

"No, I can perfectly remember it: it was two weeks ago."

John gives him a glacial look, "Yeah, that's right. But two weeks ago you didn't do it and Giulia swapped places with you to help. Last week I asked you to go (more properly _begged_ ), but you ignored me once again so I had to fill in for you. I won't allow it anymore. So today we're going shopping. Giulia, you can come too, of course, if you need anything."

"Or she could make us a list and we simply buy what she desires. She doesn't have to come," Sherlock points out with an unmistakable trace of bitterness.

"But I don't mind some extra help," John shrugs taking his coat.

"She doesn't have to be our shadow," the detective retorts.

"I asked her to come. What's the matter with you, Sherlock?" John squints his eyes at him, vexed.

"I actually need some items and I'd like to come... if it's not too much trouble," she dithers. _They do realise that they are talking about her when she is standing in the middle of the room?_

"No problem at all. Let's go!" John kindly smiles at her.

They get out in the icy air of December. Giulia and John walk side by side on the pavement, while Sherlock is a few steps behind.

"John, why is he mad at me? Did I do something wrong?" she drops her voice to a whisper turning her coat collar up against the wind.

"Don't worry and don't take it personally. Sherlock Holmes is simply mad at the whole world," he sighs.

She chuckles and looks at him, "I don't think I've ever asked you... have you got a girlfriend?"

"Any interest?" Sherlock jumps abruptly in their conversation.

"It's just a question: human curiosity," she smiles innocently making him roll up his eyes.

"No, I haven't. Not at the moment," John clears his throat awkwardly.

"Oh, sorry!" she places a hand on her mouth, "When happened?"

The doctor frowns, "What?"

"The breakup. You said _not at the moment_ so it is probably a recent thing and you may have been suffering because of it."

"You have to excuse him, but giving the fact that he lives with a man and that he isn't currently in a relationship, he felt the need to let you know that there has been a girlfriend sometime in the past," Sherlock scoffs at his friend.

"No problem. I wouldn't have implied anything, by the way."

"Or perhaps I just suffered because of it," John tries to regain control of the conversation.

"No, you didn't," Sherlock retorts. _He doesn't have to ask John about his emotional state, he is confident he can perfectly deduce it by simply observing him. Emotions and feelings might not be his department but he has always had the presumption of being able to rationally analyse the effects they have on people. After all, the head can always rule over the heart, can't it?_

John shakes his head, "By the way, no, I'm not in a relationship. What about you? You've been in London for a few months now. Did you find someone special among your university friends?"

"No, she hasn't," Sherlock quickly replies.

John glowers at him, "I asked **her**."

"No, I haven't," she confirms smiling at the two _fighting boys_.

"But she's met a nice guy who fancies her, yesterday at the university cafeteria. He plays football," the detective adds casually.

"How do you know that?" Giulia stares at him with eyes wide open.

"Oh, please, it's fairly obvious. First clue: there's a napkin with a name and a phone number on it peeping out your coat pocket. It's not from a tissue box; it is made in the rough paper typical of food shops or similar. How do I know it was the university cafeteria? Easy: yesterday, you didn't come home for lunch, and you only do that when you have too little time. You're a practical girl and food is hardly ever on the top list of your priorities - _which I frankly appreciate, it allows you to save time_. So I assume you decided to avoid the canteen and go for a quick snack or a sandwich at the café. And that's where a boy approached you."

"Thanks, Sherlock, we can imagine the rest: he sat at her table and they had a little chat, probably," John shrugs trying to save her from the embarrassment of that conversation.

"No, my dear Watson, things went a bit differently. He didn't sit: the pressure he applied to the pen when he wrote down his number, the angle of his wrist pressed against the paper... he was clearly standing," Sherlock describe gesturing with his hands and John snickers commenting, "He saw a pretty girl sitting alone in a cafè and went to talk to her, but didn't sit to look her in the eyes... He is not very smart, then."

Giulia smiles at him blushing slightly while Sherlock just keeps the deductions going, "Possibly. And yet he was interested since he quickly wrote his contact on a napkin. What does it say about him?"

"He was in a hurry, perhaps?" John concludes.

"Precisely. And where was he rushing to, in the early afternoon? Something he couldn't miss, obviously. Given the moment of the day, the unlikely possibility of a lecture — we can assume that he would have no trouble skipping it for a nice little chat — his rush was probably related to some sports activity. As far as I know, the university football team is not bad, so we can deduce he is a player."

The three of them walk into the supermarket and Giulia looks dazed at Sherlock, "You never cease to amaze me."

"I wouldn't be so sure. I mean, he always deduces things like that, but this time his explanation is meagre and vague. It's like a shot in the dark, really," John protests.

"It isn't. I am 100% certain of the accuracy of my information."

The doctor raises a brow, "How so?"

"I simply read the texts they exchanged," he confesses in the most innocent tone possible.

"What? You mean you've just invented your deductions to justify the fact that you knew every detail perfectly well?" Giulia almost cries out, irritated by the outrageous invasion of privacy but somehow slightly amused as well.

"I can deduce, but I can read as well. You do remember I know the password of your phone, don't you? You messaged him to say hi and he texted back: _Hi! I'm sorry I couldn't stay and sit today at the cafè, I had to go to practice. Big game tomorrow. Hope to see you again at uni. It was nice meeting you,_ " Sherlock recalls nonchalantly.

"No way!" Giulia jokingly punches him on the arm, "You cheated."

"I used my resources," he shrugs.

" _Fraudulently_. I should definitely change the password."

"You should definitely move," Sherlock shoots back, a deep, strange tone in his voice.

She freezes and frowns at him as her confused eyes are fixed on his back as he roams around the display racks. _He was just joking, wasn't he?_

"I'll take care of fruit and vegetables. You two just try to find some non-perishable food. And please, behave _!_ " John gives them a stern, fatherly look and disappears along one of the corridors of the supermarket.

Giulia and Sherlock begin to rummage through the shelves silently.

"Sherlock, would you mind helping me?" Giulia groans standing on her tiptoes and stretching her arms up towards the top shelf. He comes to her rescue and easily reaches up grabbing what she needs. When he lifts his arms, his sleeves slide down with the movement, letting her catch a glimpse of his bare forearms.

"What's on your arm?" she immediately asks staring at him.

He frowns, "You have a very bad memory. I already told you: nicotine patches."

"No, I mean the red punctures right on your veins," she clarifies grabbing his arm and pushing up his sleeve to get a closer look.

He instantly breaks free from her grip and quickly covers his exposed skin pulling down his sleeve, "Erm... I donated blood."

"All those needles? How much did you give, three litres?" she retorts sarcastically. "You'd be dead by now."

He huffs and looks away, "If Death wanted me, it would have taken me ages ago."

"I don't feel like joking, Sherlock. And look me in the eye when I am speaking to you. What are _those_?"

He fixes his eyes in hers and hisses, "None of your business."

"Of course, it is. I am your friend!" she protests.

"You are my _flatmate_. Just do me a favour: don't pry into things that do not strictly concern you."

She should feel hurt by his hateful remake, but the only sensation that takes hold of her mind is a deep, disheartening disappointment. "I can't believe it. Drugs, _really_? **_You_**?"

"A superior mind needs a superior stimulus," he affirms as if that was a valid justification.

"It's nonsense! Does John know about it?"

"He knows I used to do drugs, but he thinks I'm clean now."

"Great! Well done, _detective!_ " she ironically applauds looking daggers at him.

"Are you going to tell him?" he asks suspiciously.

"Do you honestly think I am a five-year-old who'll run to _daddy_? Come on, Sherlock, wise up! I won't talk to John about it. I don't want him to be alarmed, not now that he is having problems at work. A spoiled child really is the last thing he should worry about," she glares at him with sadness and annoyance in her broken voice.

He furrows a brow, "Does he have problems at the clinic?"

"Gosh, you're the most observant man in London and you didn't notice how stressed your friend is? You must be really high..." she grimaces at him.

He quickly averts his eyes and looks into the distance. She shakes her head and snorts, "I would have never expected that. You must put an end to it, or I swear I will tell John and your brother _everything_. Promise me that it will not happen again," she begs with teary eyes.

"I don't make vows," he spits out.

"That's because you are too weak to keep even the smallest promise, aren't you? Or maybe you're just a junkie..."

"I'm not addicted."

"It's hard to say. What is it, by the way? Morphine or cocaine?" she says in a singsong tone.

"Keep your voice down, for God's sake! You're making a scene in a public place."

At that moment, John comes near them, "What are you fighting about?"

They spin around with guilty looks on their faces and Giulia steals a glance at her surroundings. "I was blackmailing Sherlock, actually," she confesses.

John frowns at her, "I bet he deserved it, but about what?"

Her gaze lingers on the frozen food section and she clears her throat, "Because I was arguing that a mini-fridge is absolutely necessary."

Sherlock turns towards her with confusion in his eyes and John looks quite disoriented, as well. "Mini-fridge?"

"Sure! I was threatening to throw away all the thumbs and other body parts I find in the fridge if he doesn't accept to put them away from our food, in a more appropriate and separate place," she pretends to whine.

"Not to mention that bloody head!" John joins her in those complaints, winking at her.

In the meantime, Sherlock hasn't been able to take his eyes off of the girl. _How could she make that story up in such a short time? Only an expert liar could misdirect and distort the whole meaning of a conversation with such natural air of spontaneity. That is not very reassuring.  
_

"It's an experiment. I really don't see the need for an extra, useless mini-fridge," he protests playing along.

"If you don't buy it, I can assure you that the next severed head will be _yours,_ " she glares at him and he stares back, their eyes locked, a glacial tension between them.

They don't say a word as John shifts his perplexed look from one to the other: _it looks like they are slightly overreacting now._

"Alright..." he awkwardly breaks the ice, "She convinced _me_. We'll take it."

While they are stepping out the supermarket, passing exactly where they had walked just half an hour before, Giulia looks at Sherlock and mumbles the same words she had told him previously, "You never cease to _amaze_ me."

This time, though, it is a completely different kind of amazement.


	17. Good m...urder!

_* * * **Quick Author's Note.** A little advice: if you can, listen to _ _**Lacrimosa** , an amazing piece from The **Requiem** by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I'd recommend the Youtube video of David Garrett performing the piece on the violin. It would let you immerse in the atmosphere of the _ _beginning of this chapter.* * *_

Several days later, Giulia enters the flat following the plaintive violin tune coming from upstairs.

"Good morning!" she cheerfully exclaims as she steps into the living room and waves at John sitting in his armchair.

"Oh, look who's in a good mood!" she ironically adds nodding at Sherlock who is playing the violin standing near the window, with his back facing her.

The heart-wrenching notes of the _Requiem_ composed by Mozart fill up the room, making the atmosphere gloomy and sorrowful. She bends down to whisper in John's ear, "What happened?"

He shrugs and looks up at her, "He's simply depressed. He hasn't had a proper case in a week and this is driving him crazy. So, here he is: officially celebrating the death of his own mind," he replies disheartened sipping his tea.

"Oh, I see," she nods staring at the absorbed violinist seemingly unaware of their presence. "And what will happen when a big case finally pops up? Will he spring across the room playing the _Ode to Joy_ by Beethoven?" she jokes.

John chuckles, "Probably."

At that moment, the bow slides harshly along the strings and the music immediately stops. Sherlock turns around bothered and whines, "You two distracted me!"

" _You_ were the one who turned breakfast into a funeral," Giulia retorts.

He sighs, places his violin on the table and walks back and forth across the living room. She observes his movements with a scowl. Her eyes scan his arms in search of some signs of narcotics. However, he is wearing a long-sleeved gown, so it is impossible to say whether he is on drugs or simply having a nervous breakdown.

"I want a case. Give me a case!" he bursts out sinking down into his armchair.

Right when John and Giulia exchange an exasperated look, Sherlock's phone starts ringing.

"What a coincidence!" the girl exclaims excitedly.

"Coincidences don't exist. The universe isn't so lazy," the detective rebuts looking at the lit screen.

"It means the universe has listened to your prayers, then."

He takes the call and puts it on speakerphone. "Lestrade? What do you have for me?"

"Hello Sherlock," the unmistakable voice of the DI of Scotland Yard crackles from the device. " _I am fine_. Thank you for asking: it's very kind of you!" he adds sarcastically.

"The whole point of my gruff manner and clipped replies is to skip the small talk, but you don't get it, apparently. Now, please, hurry up. I'll give you two minutes to show me that you have something worthy of my time."

"A strange thing has happened to me today," Greg starts off nervously.

"What is it about? You were able to solve a crime _all by yourself_?" Sherlock mocks him.

They distinctly hear Greg sigh on the other end of the line. "I've run across a new, mysterious case. _Death on the Alpes_."

"No, please. Don't give cases a title as John does. You are not a blogger, for God's sake! You are a _detective inspector_ — even if you wouldn't deserve such an appellation," Sherlock bitterly remarks.

"Whatever. There's a dead man here, Sherlock."

" ** _Here_**? Why are you investigating a crime scene _on the Alpes_? I'm pretty sure it doesn't fall within your division. What are you doing up there, Lestrade?"

"I'm on holiday."

"It seems that your work constantly haunts you. Maybe you should try to go a little further next time," the detective makes fun of him.

"Please!" Lestrade begs on the phone.

"Fine. So, somebody died on a mountain. What's interesting about that?"

"We cannot identify him. I didn't find any ID, mobile phone, credit cards... Nothing. No one seems to have ever met him; he was alone, and nobody has been reported missing yet..."

"You keep missing the point, Lestrade: why should _**I** _be involved? You're running out of time: two minutes nearly expired," he informs the officer in a bored tone.

"Wait, wait!" Lestrade shouts out panicking.

"Alright, here's the thing: you're a detective of Scotland Yard who has just found an unidentified corpse. I'm sure you could work something out with the local police, and yet you decided to phone _me_. So I suggest you cut to the chase, now. Inspector, why do you think this is murder?"

"I don't. It's fairly obvious it was an accident: this guy unwisely went off the ski slope trying to make his way through the trees toward the bottom of the valley, but he fell down and slammed his head on a rock," Greg reports in detail.

"What was the point in phoning me, then?" Sherlock mumbles starting to lose his patience.

"I found a piece of paper on the body, with handwriting on it: just a name and a phone number."

"Here we go! You're finally delivering relevant information," the detective rubs his hands together expectantly. "Do you recognise the name?"

"I sure do," Greg clears his throat awkwardly. "It's yours."

Greg's words linger in the silent room. The detective, the doctor and the girl stand still and exchange shocked looks.

" _My_ number and name. It'd seem that this poor devil wanted to contact me," he suggests tilting his head. "I believe it's too late _now_. I already have a lot of clients, most of whom are alive and really annoying. I gotta go!" he hastily dismisses the problem, earning reproachful stares by both his flatmates.

"Hold on a second!" the DI intervenes. "There's a problem, though: this isn't your number."

Sherlock's head jerks up, "What did you say?"

"This isn't the number I know. Are you using another one at the moment?" Greg asks.

"I've just answered your call — _terrible idea, by the way_. How could I possibly have changed my number?" he blurts out rubbing a hand on his face in front of the impossible incoherence of that question.

Lestrade sighs, "I mean, have you bought a new SIM card recently or used someone else's phone, maybe?"

"No. Why do you keep asking?"

"Because I find it strange. Don't you?"

"He might have made a mistake; perhaps he was in a hurry and wrote it wrong," John chimes in for the first time.

"Impossible," the inspector immediately replies. "He could have made one mistake, two at most. But I can assure you this number is an entirely different one."

Sherlock freezes as a sudden realisation strikes him, "Because I'm not the receiver of the call. I should be the _caller_."

"What are you talking about?"

Sherlock folds his hands together and props his chin on them, "Lestrade, just think: he didn't want to call me. He wanted **me** to call **someone** using that **number**."

Nobody dares to move or respond as he paces across the room, lost in thought.

"Dead. Why is he dead?" he talks to himself and immediately stops in his tracks exclaiming in vague excitement, "He's been murdered!"

Giulia and John stare at him with vacant looks on their faces. He meets their void gazes and exhales in annoyance. "The message has been _planted_ on the dead man's body by his killer. Quite the informed murderer, by the way, since he knew that Lestrade was there and would be drawn to investigate the matter, given his job... The killer took everything into consideration and exploited the fact that he is an inspector of Scotland Yard who knows me."

" _Everybody_ knows you," John points out.

"Yet somehow the killer knew that only _this officer_ would _willingly_ call me asking for an explanation. He is two moves ahead of us," Sherlock ponders intrigued.

"Alright, Sherlock, slow down! What killer?" Greg asks even more confused.

" _His_ killer. It wasn't an accident. And I guess that deep down you've always known."

The D.I. breathes out, "Will you help me identify him now?"

"How? I'm currently in London, in case you'd forgotten."

"But maybe we could be of some use even from here," Giulia timidly intervenes.

Sherlock turns toward her as a glint of curiosity glimmers in his eyes, "What are you suggesting?"

She grins and speaks up towards the phone, "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah?" he asks surprised by the sound of a female voice coming from the other end of the line.

"Hi, it's Giulia."

"Hey, Giulia. I had no idea you were listening to the conversation this whole time."

"I can try to help you if you want. And I promise I won't implicate myself in another murder, this time," she jokes around.

"Fine by me. I'm all ears," he promptly replies.

"Could you describe to me what the victim is wearing?"

"A basic, plain snowsuit; nothing special about it. It's what everyone wears up here."

She nods, "Yeah, of course, quite inevitable given the cold weather. And did you check all his pockets?"

"I did. There was absolutely nothing — except for the piece of paper I've just mentioned," Greg comments without hiding his despondency.

"May I know where this is going?" Sherlock scowls at her.

"Just trust me," she winks at him.

"I find it quite hard," he snaps back. She looks daggers at him and focuses again on the inspector. "Detective Lestrade..."

"Call me Greg," he interrupts her with a softer voice.

"Very well, then... Greg, do me a favour: check both of his sleeves. Just above the forearm, before the wrist, there should be a small, hidden pocket. More likely on the left sleeve, if memory serves me correctly," she instructs him.

John and Sherlock frown at her, unaware of her intentions. There's a little commotion on the line and they clearly hear Lestrade huff and puff while fumbling about in the snow.

"You were right!" he exclaims triumphantly. "Left sleeve, over his forearm. _Remarkable!_ " he compliments her.

"Great! Now open it: you're supposed to find his ski pass," she guides him.

"There it is. Right again," Lestrade confirms.

"How exactly does it help us?" John inquires.

"I'm confident that it contains the answer to all our questions. First of all, there must be the victim's name printed on it. Secondly, we'll get to know when the pass was issued and when it expires. So, basically, it tells us how long he was planning to stay on the Alpes."

"That's it?" Sherlock asks seemingly unimpressed even though his eyes are captivated by her undeniable skills.

"I think it is far more information than I expected to find, by the way," Lestrade's voice spreads out from the phone.

"How did you know that?" Sherlock addresses Giulia with an inquiring look.

"I have gone skiing since I was five. I'm very familiar with ski slopes, snowsuits and everything related to that environment. That's how I knew that he could have never been able to reach the top of the mountain and the beginning of the slope without a ski pass; otherwise, he couldn't go through the turnstiles allowing access to the ski lifts."

"Let me get this straight: everyone has to swipe a ski pass at the turnstile before getting on every ski lift on the slopes, correct?" John struggles to understand.

"Exactly. I'm pretty sure that a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard will be able to find enough cooperation from the operators of the lifts to use the man's ski pass in order to trace the victim's movements on the slopes before his death," Giulia affirms.

"Wait a moment. If swiping the pass at the turnstiles is compulsory, the man must have used it to get to the very place where he is lying now. This means that we can determine the exact time of his death," Sherlock points out smirking. "Brilliant!"

"Thank you," Giulia gives him a smug smile.

He frowns, "I wasn't actually..."

"I know, I know: Sherlock Holmes doesn't praise other human beings," she sneers rolling her eyes.

"But **I** do. Thank you very much, Giulia. You've been a huge help," Greg remarks from the phone, "Now I have to carry on with the investigation."

"I need the phone number written on the note," Sherlock demands firmly before he can hang up.

"Sure. Here it is..." the inspector dictates it as the detective jots it down.

"Have a good day everyone!" and with that, Greg ends the call.

Sherlock grabs his phone and begins to digit on it.

"What are you doing?" John grimaces.

"What do you think?" Sherlock raises a brow at him.

"You can't be serious... You can't phone a killer!" the doctor protests.

"It wouldn't even be the first time," he shrugs smirking as he remembers their very first case together when he made John phone Jennifer Wilson's killer. John's mind goes back in time too, and he shakes his head with a small sigh.

"And what do you plan on telling him?" Giulia asks.

"Invite him over for tea, maybe?" the detective sarcastically replies while putting the phone up to his ear. He takes some steps and walks away from them looking for a quiet corner in the flat.

In the meantime, someone opens the call but doesn't speak.

"Hello?" Sherlock ventures.

"Mr Holmes, I'm so glad you found my message and understood my intentions."

_How could he know the identity of the caller?_ Sherlock wonders, then he logically concludes: o _bvious, he is using his personal number, the one that anyone could find on his website 'The Science of Deduction'._

"They were crystal clear. Who are you?"

"A shadow from the past."

"My past?" Sherlock furrows his brow.

"Each and every person that crosses our path leaves a mark," the voice replies ominously.

"It would seem that we have already met, then," Sherlock infers.

"We have. And you definitely marked my life. So here I am, on your path again. But this time things will go differently. This time I will be... unforgettable."

"A note on a corpse, a veiled threat on the phone, some history between us... This is all very fascinating. But unluckily, I don't deal with shadows; they are too evanescent. Very sorry. Bye-bye!" he cuts it short.

"Oh, don't worry. I'll be sure to become a very concrete presence in your life, Mr Detective of Baker Street."


	18. Here comes the storm

"Two days have passed and still no news from that **voice**..." Sherlock sighs flopping heavily down on the couch. He can do nothing but wait for the next move of his rival. And, of course, this is driving him crazy.

"I'm sure that our _dear_ killer is planning something great. Don't worry: he will turn up soon," Giulia tries to cheer him up tuning in with his not-so-subtle admiration for psychopaths and murderers.

"I fail to see how this would be reassuring," John comments tersely.

"My brain is rotting. I am doomed!" the detective whines dramatically sinking his head in his hands.

"We all are with you in this state. Now relax: I'll make you a cuppa," Giulia volunteers heading to the kitchen with a soft smile on her lips.

Sherlock springs to his feet and rushes to the kitchen door shielding the entrance with his body. Giulia stops just in time to avoid colliding with his bare chest under peeking out of his blue gown loosely tied around his body.

"I appreciate your kind offer but no, thank you! I'll make it myself," he fakes a grin, steps in and shuts the door behind his back.

She does a double-take and stays disoriented on the threshold. "What's the matter with him? Does he still fear that I would poison him?" she murmurs with a hint of sarcasm addressing John.

He shrugs, "He is just restless and impatient. I'll try to convince him to go to Scotland Yard. Maybe we can gather some more information about the murder on the Alpes or talk with Lestrade, who is back from his eventful holiday. All Sherlock Holmes needs is a distraction."

"You could say that!" she comments staring sadly at the closed door as if it represented the impenetrable gates of Sherlock's mind palace. She feels that their delicate balance is falling apart. _Sherlock used to be the one with trust issue with her, but now she is not so sure she can trust him..._

The doctor eventually succeeds in dragging him out of the flat, and they head to the police station. When they come back home, a few hours later, Sherlock walks into the kitchen and immediately storms out.

"Where are they? What happened? What did you do with them?" he shouts against Giulia who is reading a book on the couch.

She placidly looks up from her book and frowns, while John turns confused towards him, "Sherlock, what are you talking about? Just calm down, please!"

"No, John, this is _essential_. Where are my experiments?" he furiously asks the girl.

"On the shelves, where I always put them when I try to sort out your impossible mess," she breathes out rolling her eyes.

"No, I'm referring to all the other things I had left on the kitchen table," he stomps his feet enraged.

"Oh, you mean all that _trash_? I threw it away," she affirms candidly exhibiting a proud smile.

"You **_what_**? Where is the bin now? Where's the garbage?" he looks around the flat and turns the living room upside down rushing from one corner to the other.

"Oi! Simmer down! The bin is over there, but you won't find anything."

"Why not?" his tone is livid.

"Because I flushed everything down the toilet" she shrugs innocently.

"What?! I can't believe it!" he yells, he is out of his mind. "Please tell me you're joking. This must be a very bad joke. You couldn't have done such an _absurd thing_!"

"Did you really flush all Sherlock's experiments?" John looks at her in disbelief. _That is incredibly disrespectful of her._

" _Experiments_?" she spits out the word edged in disgust and contempt. She shakes her head slowly and flashes a hurtful look at Sherlock, "What a cunning front, detective! Above any suspicion."

She addresses the doctor with heartache gripping her voice, "They weren't real experiments, John. We should wise up. It was his _drug lab._ "

Sherlock remains unperturbed and teases her, "How did you spot those substances? Have you ever been on drugs?"

"No, I haven't. Unlike you, apparently," she snaps back.

"So how could you recognise the drugs among all the real experiments?" the detective inquires with diffidence.

"I was helped. I grew suspicious when you practically banned me from the kitchen, yet I couldn't be 100% sure so I looked for an expert and found the phone number of Dr Molly Hooper. Did you know that she is keen on chemistry? I asked her to come and she analysed everything. We borrowed your microscope, by the way. I hope you don't mind," she replies with a cunning smile desperately trying to put up a credible facade while her heart is sinking: _her flatmate is a liar embarked on a self-sabotaging mission._

"Molly came here to analyse my possessions?" Sherlock definitely loses it.

"Not only that," she answers reaching out and grabbing a folder on the coffee table. "She also wrote this summary containing every single substance she found. She has been very methodical, I have to admit it."

"Let me see!" he peremptorily orders stretching out his hands, but she keeps it out of his reach and gets close to John, instead. "What for? You already know what was there. **This** is for your doctor, to let him know the status of his miserable patient."

John takes the document and flicks through it, growing immediately pale. "Jesus, Sherlock! This can't be true. You can't take - or even possess, all this junk..."

"Don't worry, John," Giulia cuts him short, "He doesn't possess it anymore."

"This is utterly ridiculous!" Sherlock bursts out. "You can't do such a thing, you simply _can't_. Now, listen carefully and pay attention to my words: this is my house..."

" _Our_ house," the doctor corrects him.

"Not now, John, I'm trying to make a point. This is where I live, and if you want to share this flat with me, you cannot behave like that. You are crazy, completely out of control!" he throws his hands in the air.

John glowers at him and hisses, "Sherlock, stop."

"No, I won't stop because this is unacceptable. She threw my experiments in the toilet!" he almost screams.

"They - were - drugs! You're not even allowed to have them in the first place," his friend spells out every syllable.

Sherlock looks almost hurt by John's hostile reply. "Are you on her side now?"

"Side? What are you talking about? This is not a war, Sherlock, nor a bloody game of yours. Your life is at stake!" John raises his voice to match the detective's fit of anger.

"Precisely. _My_ life. And you two have no right to mess around with it. I make my own decisions, I adopt the lifestyle I prefer."

John snorts, "Yeah, and yours is leading you straight to the grave."

"Who cares?"

"We do! That's exactly why she did what she did: because she cares!" John exclaims nodding to the girl.

"And I'm sure you're an expert about caring, given the number of girlfriends you have had... You only improve with practice, don't you?" Sherlock jeers at him. "Therefore, if you are _so good_ at it, why don't you lecture me in what caring is really about?"

John gives him a tight-lipped smile, his disappointed grimace. "You want to know what _caring_ is about? Easy: when someone cares about you, they will do their best to save you."

The detective arches his brows, "Save me? From whom?"

"Your biggest enemy: yourself."

"Oh shut up, John!" he grumbles.

"I will. I'm out," John states turning around and heading for the stairs. He slams the door with a loud thud making Giulia jump in her seat.

The flat falls silent. The girl doesn't speak for several minutes: she looks like a sand statue on the verge of crumbling. Eventually, she stands up and walks to the window turning her back to Sherlock and trying to hold back the tears that threaten to stream out of her eyes.

The detective ignores her movements and sinks into his armchair with a deep sigh feeling suddenly drained. _Is it the abstinence kicking in? It must be, right? What else could it be? Remorse?_ _He never felt remorseful in his life, he doesn't feel those little impractical emotions, he doesn't... he_ ** _mustn't_** _feel._ _It clouds his judgement; that is what he has kept repeating to himself from a very young age._ _Emotions don't apply to him: remorse is the sentence of the guilty, and he is beyond the concepts of right and wrong. Isn't he?_

After a while, the girl breaks that awkward stillness, "John was wrong about me: I didn't want to save you."

"Why not? It seems to be the purpose of caring..." he replies sarcastically.

"Because you can't save people that don't want to be saved, you cannot spare them the fight with themselves. Sherlock, you have to face your demons on your own. Nobody can help you, only you can. I was simply trying to keep temptations away, far from your addiction."

"I'm not an addict," he retorts.

"Yes, you are. You are addicted to the thought that you absolutely need all that rubbish. Your addiction is the idea that you can only work by taking it, that it helps you think. God, you are so intelligent... So how do you not get that it is burning your brain, instead?"

He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head, "I need it. I really do. You don't understand."

"I never tried to. I was scared, okay? When I realised what you were doing with your life, I was truly terrified. I got rid of that junk because I do hope that you won't use it again."

He looks into her eyes and bitterly sneers, "Why? Because people could find it out and it would be a scandal?"

"No, because _I_ could find it out and I would be very disappointed," she says through gritted teeth and heads for the door, but Sherlock murmurs to her back, "You've set the bar far too high; I will never live up to the idea you have of me. You should lower your expectations."

She turns around and looks straight into his eyes, "I have no high expectations on you. I never made you into a knight, a hero or Prince Charming. The only idea I have of you is the same thing you think of yourself: you must always be the smartest person in the room. Well, you really let me down today: you proved me wrong," she gives him one last pain-ridden glance and rushes downstairs.

He takes a deep breath, looks around and wanly whispers to himself, "But I am the _only one_ in this room."

Giulia goes out and begins to walk on the street when she spots a familiar face beyond a shop window. She steps into Speedy's and sits down at a table smiling slightly at the person across from her.

"I thought you went a bit further away," she comments fiddling with a napkin.

"I just needed to get out of that flat," John answers lowering his pensive gaze.

"Yeah, me too."

They remain silent for a few seconds, then John speaks again looking directly at her, "I hate that Sherlock talked to you like that. And the way he behaved... why didn't you react? You just sit there while he shouted at you."

She bites down her lip and grimaces, "I study International Relations; I know how to handle a tough situation with the right calmness and diplomacy."

"Sure. But had he yelled at me like that, I would have punched him in the face," he replies.

She chuckles but immediately becomes serious again. "John, why has no one ever told me anything about his drug habit?"

"I guess I thought he was doing just fine. I thought he was clean. I could never imagine he had relapsed. I - I..." he stutters embarrassed. "I should have seen it coming. What kind of a doctor am I? What kind of a _friend_?"

"The one who has been busy with his work, and this is not a crime. You can't blame yourself for thinking that he was more mature than that. It's not your fault," she reassures him placing her hand on one of his on the table.

"Sometimes I just wish my life was a bit easier."

She raises a brow. "I can relate. But where would be the fun in that?" she smirks. "Don't worry, flatmate: we'll try to talk sense into him. We will find a solution." She smiles kindly at him and leaves, holing up in her room.

After a while, John comes back home and finds Sherlock on the couch, eyes closed, hands folded under his chin, wandering around in his mind palace. The doctor stands next to him for a couple of minutes staring at his motionless figure, weighing his words, choosing carefully what to say. Sherlock, well aware of his presence, snaps his eyes open and gazes at his silent spectator, "I know that face and I can clearly see what you are thinking right now as if it was written on your forehead."

"Read it, then," John rebuts.

"You want me to apologise to her, don't you? Oh, John, you are so predictable!"

"And so are you, since you haven't done it yet."

The detective sighs and gets up, "Don't you get it? She knows me even better than I thought, she reads through me more easily than I expected. She doesn't need a stupid apology."

John looks daggers at him, "I don't care if she needs it or not, if she knows you or not. The only thing I know is that you have to go to her room and apologise. It's a matter of manners. I can bear your angry outbursts and I will overlook the dark sides of your personality, but I will not allow you to be rude. Not with her, not ever."

"And what should I say?" Sherlock asks with sincere curiosity crossing his arms on his chest. _Social interactions are not his area of expertise, to put it nicely._

"Something like _I'm sorry, forgive me_."

Sherlock rolls his eyes as John stands still in the same spot, his hands on his hips like a father scolding his son.

"Fine!" the detective grumbles and goes downstairs. He walks up to the door of 221C and is about to knock when a voice coming from within the flat prevents him, "Don't."

Sherlock freezes speechless.

"Don't knock on my door and don't try to apologise," Giulia anticipates his moves.

Sherlock smirks, "I was right, then. You don't need this trifle."

He hears the soft sound of her footsteps approaching the door and her voice resounds closer, "No, you were wrong. I don't need to see you at my door just because John begged you to apologise to me."

"He didn't beg _,"_ he specifies leaning against the jamb and attempting at easing up the tension.

"You know, we could get on really well if only you were sincere with me," she feebly states resting her hands and forehead on the door but refusing to open it.

He squeezes his lips together with his fingers while his brain looks for something to say: _what does 'honesty' mean with a person who can apparently see through his soul?_

"Well, I don't have sincere apologies to offer you."

She doesn't talk back so he nods uncomfortably at her silent treatment. "Good night," he mumbles and turns around. He is going back upstairs when he hears the key clinking in the lock. Giulia peeks out from behind the half-open door, "Speaking frankly, what's happening?"

He frowns at her with confusion in his eyes, "What do you mean?"

"I thought that we were doing fine and everything was okay. But now you are on drugs, you are rude most of the time, and my mere presence bothers you. What's the problem?"

He shrugs, "I suppose _I am_ the problem, right? These are just the cons of living with me."

"I haven't had any problems living with you so far, but something has changed. It's like dealing with Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. _You_ changed and now your attitude towards me is different. I am not blind nor stupid. Sherlock, what happened? I thought we found a balance."

He snorts and averts his gaze, "You want me to be honest, right? Great, so here's what I think: balance is fiction, it's just a ticking bomb. And when the timer goes off, there will be a huge explosion."


	19. When the smile fades away

"I can no longer bear this wait!" Sherlock exclaims springing to his feet from his armchair and pacing the empty flat. He stops in front of one of the walls of the living room, takes aim with his British Army Browning L9A1 and shoots twice at the yellow smiley face painted on the wallpaper.

A few seconds later, he hears frantic footsteps coming from the staircase and Giulia bursts into the room, her hand wrapped around her phone already calling 999.

"Dear Lord! I've heard gunshots. What happened?"

"I was bored," Sherlock laconically replies nodding to the smiley face.

She frowns at him in confusion, lowers her gaze on the gun he is still holding and gapes. Before she could even formulate a question, he lazily nods at the holes in the wall. She follows his gaze and immediately walks to the wall inspecting the unconventional 'redecoration'. She brushes her fingertips on the mangled wallpaper, "So you chose the wall as your _target_?"

He shrugs, puts his index in the trigger hole of his weapon, and nonchalantly swings it around in the air.

"999, what's your emergency?" a voice echoes from the phone in Giulia's hand.

She feels like she'd just woken up from a dream and quickly apologises, "I'm sorry, everything's alright, apparently."

She hangs up but keeps the phone next to her ear and pronounces what she wishes she had said, "I'd like to report a murder."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at her over-dramatic demeanour and she sighs, "Why do you even have a gun?"

"Recreation. And protection, of course. I have enemies."

"I wonder why," she replies sarcastically. "Can I see it?" she stretches out her hand like a demanding kid.

He furrows his brow, "It isn't a toy."

"You've just called it _recreational,_ " she underlines.

"Good point. Here: you can have a look at it," he hands her the gun without a care in the world.

She weighs it in her hands and holds it tightly roaming theatrically around the living room as if she were in a spy movie.

"My name is Bond, James Bond!" she acts.

"Hey, 007, put it down!" Sherlock warns since she looks like she slipped into character a bit too enthusiastically.

She turns towards him grasping the barrel with both hands and pointing it at his chest. Sherlock turns pale but tries to keep a poker face. "What are you doing? _Put - it - down!_ " he commands keeping his hands in the air to play along with the joke even though he is not that sure about the playful act anymore.

"Does it make you nervous?" she cocks a brow smugly.

"Weapons never scared me," he replies unperturbed.

"What about death?"

"Nope," he pops the 'p' with a loud click of his lips.

"Wouldn't you be sad to leave this world behind?" she philosophically asks.

"Isn't it the good part of dying?" he jokes studying her movements, buying time.

"Has it ever occurred to you how easy it would be to kill someone?" she inquires in a light tone that seems to clash with the seriousness of the situation.

"Yes. That's exactly why I am so mad at the criminal classes these days. Why can't they just provide me with a simple murder?" he wanders off calmly as if he wasn't held at gunpoint.

At that moment, John enters the room, takes a quick look at the scene and immediately drops the shopping bags he was holding.

"What on Earth is happening here?" he cries out.

"Oh, we were both bored, you know... the usual," Giulia shrugs.

"Yes, well, if _such a thing_ becomes _usual_ , I swear I will instantly move. Now, let's stay calm and try to reason. You could start by lowering that, for instance," he commands in a stern voice pointing at the firearm.

She glowers at him, "I'm not a threat, _Captain."_

"Says the girl who's pointing a gun at our flatmate. Do you mind if I don't believe you?"

"I do, actually. I'm offended!" she snaps back annoyed. She looks at them both lowering the weapon. "Look at your faces! I truly can't believe it. You both think this is real... It's just a game," she murmurs looking down at the gun in her hands and smiling faintly as she puts the safety back on.

"Sorry, are you implying Sherlock's definition of a _game_? Because you ought to know I do not approve it," John states.

"Here, you can keep it and relax. I was just enjoying myself," she hands it back to Sherlock who cautiously takes it from her hands with an enigmatic look on his face.

"So, it was really a joke, then?" John asks dazed massaging his forehead with two fingers in a failed attempts to flatten the furrow that has been permanently sitting between his eyebrows.

"Well, you were the ones who made it serious. What's the matter with you? We've been living together for months now, and you still can't trust me?"

"Given our lifestyle and the psychopaths and murderers we've met..." John tries to justify his reaction.

"I'm not one of them. At this point, I thought you knew me better than that," she cuts him off. Her voice trembles slightly towards the end, soaked with disappointment.

"I always feel like I don't know you at all, for the record," Sherlock says scornfully.

"Here we go again!" she sighs recalling the night of her release and the barrage of questions that Sherlock had poured on her on the way home. "And what would you like to know about me?"

"What are you still doing here?" he sternly inquires. He gives her an icy stare she had never seen in his impenetrable eyes.

"Sherlock, drop it! I don't want to go through another argument," John grumbles.

"It's not an argument, John. Just a piece of friendly advice for our _dear_ flatmate: leave!" he hisses.

"What? What's wrong with you Sherlock?" the doctor gapes at him with shock painted all over his face.

"There's nothing wrong with me. She ruined _everything_. Look at the kitchen: she turned it upside down touching and throwing away _my possessions_."

"What the hell are you talking about? She did her best to tidy up your chaos and she rightfully disposed of your drugs."

"Well, I cannot accept it anymore," the detective stamps his feet.

"You're making it all out of nowhere. What's her fault, now?" John clenches his jaw, upset and angry.

"Nothing new. Her original sin was to move here, in the first place. I wish..." Sherlock stops talking mid-sentence as if he suddenly regained a dose of self-control.

_Nobody knows it, no one can hear the deafening sound of a thousand alarms blaring inside his mind palace. Somewhere in his conscience, he knows he is about to do something terrible, to say something dreadful that he could never unsay. Nobody knows it, but he is held back by a grain of common sense and humanity. He_ _would still have enough self-control not to hurt her, not more than he has already, anyway._

What he doesn't expect, though, is for _her_ to push him to take the step there is no coming back from.

Giulia looks directly into his eyes: _all she wants is the brutal truth, at this point, nothing else matters_. She challenges him, "What is it? I've always encouraged you to speak freely in front of me. Do it, then. Say it out loud: what do you wish?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath and pronounces his verdict, "I wish you had never entered our lives. I wish I could go back to normal, back to our existence... before you."

His words float in the air for a few seconds. She nods slowly as the meaning sinks in, "Thanks for your candour."

She keeps her head down and bites her lips desperately trying not to cry in front of them; then she runs downstairs and slams the door of 221C.

John silently processes what has just happened. _The discussion turned incredibly bad in such a short time, and everything just fell apart._

He inhales and exhales methodically before giving Sherlock an ironical smile, "Well done."

"I did nothing. I was simply being honest."

"Yes, sure. But since you're so honest, tell me: what did you do to my friend? Because I can't recognise the person in front of me. Who are you?"

"You know perfectly well who I am: a high functioning sociopath. This is just the sociopathic side of my character. I thought you'd got used to it by now," he snarls flopping down on the couch.

John glares at him, "Yeah, I thought the same thing." Then he goes downstairs and gently knocks on Giulia's door.

"I don't want to talk, John," the girl speaks from inside.

He flinches, "How did you know it was me?"

"Was there really a possibility it could be _him_?" she replies as her voice slightly cracks at the end of the sentence.

The doctor doesn't talk back. _She's right: Sherlock would never show at her door after what he said._ _And he is so mad at him_... But he feels even more sorry for Giulia, so he tries again, "Can I come in?"

"I'm frankly too busy to stop you."

When John opens the door and steps in, he finds the room in complete chaos; clothes and books are scattered all around the small entrance, and Giulia whirls around the small place like a hurricane.

"Hey, hey, slow down! What are you doing?" he reaches the girl who is fiddling with the zip fastener of a suitcase.

"I am packing, John. I'm leaving," she points out the obvious.

"No, don't..." he takes her hands in his to stop her, a sudden sense of urgency in his tone.

She looks into his kind eyes, "Didn't you hear him? I think he has explained his will crystal clear," she slips her hands out of his hold and goes back to her preparations.

"He's just angry and discouraged. I'm sure he didn't mean the things he said," John clumsily tries to find a justification, a reason for her to stay.

"Of course he did. But, what is more, I think he's right," she declares emptying her closet.

"You can't say that."

She turns around to face him, "He has every right to want his old life back. And _you_ should too. Maybe I just made a mistake; I should have never come here, a few months ago." She looks hurt and lost, but she's trying her best not to break down.

"Please, stay!" he begs in a low, pleading voice.

"What for? He doesn't want me here anymore and this is his home."

"I live here, too. Do I have a say in this? Why is my opinion always ignored?" he complains annoyed.

"I'm not ignoring you. I simply think that you should agree with him; you should ask for your previous life, too. Everything is going to work out in the end. Trust me: you will be fine."

"And what about you?"

She smiles slightly at his concern for her but doesn't reply. She gets close to him and gently caresses his cheek, "John, I want to thank you for everything you've ever done for me. You've always been kind to me: you took me into your house, into your life. You allowed me to live stunning adventures with you."

"And put you in grave danger too," he recalls.

"That's true, but it was part of the game, wasn't it? Now I am not a player anymore: my time is over. I will never get to thank you to the fullest, so I think I'll just stop here."

He stands still, arms down at his side, fists clenched, upset. "You're very welcome for everything."

She is turning away but she suddenly stops as if she was reminded of something. "I- I'd thank him, too, but I'm not sure he would listen to me right now. So, could you..." she hesitates but forces herself to complete her sentence. "Tell him I've met many men in my life and he's surely one of the most flawed. But in the end, he turned out to be one of the most extraordinary, as well, and I am glad I had the good fortune of meeting him. Also, tell him I am truly sorry for all the trouble I caused him, for my arrest, and everything..."

A faint smile flashes on her face as she mentally adds, _Well, I'm not really sorry for what I did with his drugs, to be honest._

She raises her gaze on John: he is shifting from one foot to the other, uncomfortable.

She shakes her head as if she was trying to erase all her words floating in the air or simply rewind, "Actually, I think I was just rambling. Just tell him that he is finally having his life back. It's what he wanted, isn't it?"

"Giulia..." John begins, but she cuts him short.

"Please, now go," she pleads.

He has no choice but to turn around and walk away. He climbs the stairs and enters the living room to find Sherlock lost in his mind palace. John sighs and sinks in his chair. No one speaks for several minutes, then they hear some commotion downstairs. Sherlock grumbles at the noise but doesn't come back to reality. John stares at him gathering all his might not to punch him.

They go on like this for half an hour: the doctor plotting Sherlock's murder and the detective guessing what original insults John might come up with.

After a while, Sherlock breathes out, "She is finally done raising hell down there. I'm glad the noise stopped."

John groans, "You won't have to worry about it anymore. She's moving."

The detective ponders that statement for a while, then pronounces flatly, "Good."

"That's all you have to say?" John blurts out. "Jesus, Sherlock, you've just kicked a girl out, sending her out there homeless and alone!"

"She should have never come in our way. She'd better keep her distance."

"How can you go on like this? She is our friend!" the doctor protests.

" _This_ was our first mistake. Call her like _that_ , consider her like _that,"_ he spits out.

"And what's wrong with friends?" John asks but immediately raises a hand in the air to prevent his predictable comeback. "No, don't bother to answer. I wonder why I keep asking you these questions."

"Being friends with someone is not a problem, it's normal - or at least _you all_ make it look like that. But being friends with us... that is masochistic. We are dangerous, John, can't you see it? We are, in fact, dangerous people who tend to run into very dangerous situations more often than expected, than humanly plausible. This is what we are, this is our lifestyle and we are used to it. But she shouldn't be involved in this; it wouldn't be fair. Because **we** _chose_ it in the first place, and **she** _didn't,_ " Sherlock explains calmly.

"You're wrong. She _did_ choose this lifestyle, this mess, even the danger. Everything she did was based on her own choice. Nobody has ever forced her to be around us, Sherlock. We are dangerous and she knew it. Yet she stayed... Until _you_ showed her the door," John retorts lowering his eyes and shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Oh, forgive me if I wanted her out of the most perilous place in London!" Sherlock sarcastically snaps back.

The doctor turns confused towards him, "What are you talking about?"

The detective rolls his eyes, "Well, John, I will not deny that I am the most selfish, obnoxious man in this city, but I didn't get rid of her _on a whim_."

John does a double-take and frowns clueless. "I don't understand."

"I phoned a killer a few days ago," he reminds him.

"I know."

"But you don't know that he threatened me during our short call. And not just me: he said he would become a _concrete presence in my life,_ " Sherlock recalls those obscure words.

"And what does it mean?"

"Haven't the faintest. But it was quite obvious that everyone around me was in danger..."

"Including Giulia," John finally realises completing his sentence.

"Yup. That's why I've been so hateful and mean to her lately. I was just trying to get her to walk away from me. I simply wanted to..."

"Save her," John concludes his sentence again as his brain starts working frantically.

"Yes. Would you please let me finish?" he intervenes annoyed.

"Shut up, Sherlock! Shut up and listen!" John places a finger on his lips signalling him to keep quiet.

Sherlock pricks up his ears but shakes his head. "To what? I can't hear anything."

"Exactly." The doctor is struck by a sudden realisation and pales, "Oh God!" He whips around and sprints downstairs.

"Wait, John! Where are you going?" Sherlock follows him.

"The noise we heard previously, all that commotion... it came from Giulia's room," he specifies dashing along the staircase.

They reach the door of 221C on which they find clear signs of a break-in. They freeze and slowly push the door open, peeking inside.

Most of her clothes and books are now packed inside her suitcases and bags. There's no sign of all the chaos John saw, but also no sign of Giulia.

The detective inspects some dirty footprints on the floor and kneels down next to a white tissue thrown in a corner. He grabs it and carefully moves it close to his nose. He immediately wrinkles his nostrils and throws it away. "Chloroform," he states.

John gives him a desperate look, "She was kidnapped. You didn't save her, after all."


	20. Riddle

_Has the temperature in the room dropped sharply all of a sudden?_ Sherlock thinks distractedly. That would be the only logical explanation for he'd swear that his blood has just frozen in his veins. He can feel it: _molten ice all over his circulatory system._

_This is unlike anything he has ever experienced. It's not fear: he knows that much. He knows what it means but, more importantly, he knows how he reacts in front of it. He's not like most people: fear doesn't paralyse him. If anything, it heightens his senses._

_Then why, for Heaven's sake, is he petrified right now?  
_

He perceives an unfamiliar sensation of tightness in his chest as he lowers his glance to the tissue soaked with chloroform.

_What is this unpleasant clutch over his diaphragm?_ He self-diagnoses. _It bears an uncomfortable resemblance to guilt and powerlessness. Is it... remorse?_

He shakes his head to cast that absurd thought out of his mind, but his conscience-stricken pride keeps haunting him. _He tried his best to protect Giulia and he failed... He was in too deep and didn't realise it. He thought he could simply yell some mean things and get her out of the crosshairs. But he should have known better than that: that's not how life in Baker Street works._

"I didn't see _this_ coming," Sherlock finally manages to murmur. His tone resounds like a confession of wrongdoing, and that's a first. _How? How could he, Sherlock Holmes, not see it coming? How could he fail so spectacularly?_

The doctor shoots him a hostile glare and clenches his fists to hide the fact that his hands are shaking. "I'll call Greg," he states fishing his phone out of the pocket.

Sherlock, finally responsive to his surroundings, frowns at him, "Who?"

"Greg Lestrade."

"Oh... him. What for?" he wonders candidly.

John takes a deep breath trying his hardest not to land his right hook on that smug face, "Because he is with the police and we need help."

"Scotland Yard never helps. You know that I can perfectly handle it myself."

"Right now, I know nothing. And since you weren't able to protect her previously, now we are going to do it my way. Is it clear?" John glowers at his friend.

Sherlock does not talk back this time; he simply stares at John taking a few steps across the tiny flat with the phone up to his hear. He decides to make a phone call, too.

"Hello, Mr Holmes. I was wondering when you'd call," the croaky voice Sherlock has already heard once picks up to greet him.

Sherlock tightens his grip on his phone and demands harshly, "Where is Giulia? I know you are the person behind this abduction."

"Yeah, it wasn't a very difficult deduction, was it? She's right here with me," the mysterious killer of the Alpes replies sinisterly.

_He has never been more dismayed to be right about something._

"Care to elaborate?" Sherlock struggles to keep a cool head. _Weird, he always manages to keep his indifferent composure even in the most frightful situations. What is happening to him?_

"I've already left you all the information you need to find us. Just look around, Holmes. You're told to be quite observant and clever: time to prove it."

**Inside the Bank on King William Street**

A bulky man to whom belongs the dark voice Sherlock was speaking to, hangs up with an evil smirk and throws the phone across the darkened room. The device flies through the air crashing into a wall and shattering on the floor.

"What a shame! It was the new model!" a female voice protests in the darkness.

The man casts a blank look at the electronic carcass and shrugs, "I didn't need it anymore. Besides, I don't want either Sherlock or the police to find me by geolocalising the signal: that would spoil all the fun!"

He turns around and walks towards the source of the voice that has just reprimanded him. "And I don't like that my _guests_ speak to me like that." His lips unveil a cruel smile as he approaches the other person.

" _You_... That's a good point, actually. You could start by saying _who_ you are, for example," the silhouette of a girl tightly tied to a chair slowly emerges from the shadows as he steps closer.

"My dear Giulia, I thought it was quite obvious; I am a fan of Sherlock Holmes."

She ironically smiles at him, "Great! So am I. Is it why I am here? Is this an official gathering?" she jokes.

He gives her a stern look irritated by her insolence, "You are leverage and I'm confident you will prove very useful."

"So you haven't decided what to do with me _yet,_ " she teases him.

"Of course, I have. I kidnapped you to get to Sherlock."

She looks genuinely taken aback, "I am afraid I'm not following you."

The man walks up to her and raises a hand in a swift movement. Every muscle in her body tenses expecting either a slap or a punch in the face; her eyes widen in horror as she sees his hand coming down slowly to caresses her cheek. She desperately tries to pull back and avoid his touch, but the bonds on her wrists and ankles restrain her movements.

"He cares about you deeply," he cups her chin and forces her to lift her eyes and meet his.

She swallows hard focusing on his dark gaze. In the dim light, his pupils are so dilated that she can't even distinguish the colour of the irises: _she has the impression of gawking into two endless pits._

She tries to regain control and lowers her eyes murmuring feebly, "I think he really doesn't. Especially after what he said."

"Don't be silly. He would do anything to save you," he starts to lose his temper.

"Would he?"

"Just shut up!" he shouts making her jump in her seat. "Sherlock will definitely try to rescue you. In fact, he's coming here. The great detective in person here to meet _me!"_ he proudly affirms.

"If you just wanted to be introduced to him, you could have stopped by Baker Street. It would have taken a lot less effort," Giulia continues to make fun of him, even if she knows better than to mess with such a dangerous person.

He looks daggers at her, "I prefer to play safe, having home-court advantage."

"Then I should warn you: he loves playing games and hates losing." Giulia mentally prays that Sherlock doesn't loathe her that much to let her die by the hands of this psychopath. _She hopes with every fibre of her being that he will take up the challenge, if only for the sake of an adrenaline rush. It'll be just another game for him and that's probably her best bet that he will actually come._

The kidnapper trails his hand along her delicate neck and smirks menacingly, "Oh, I know. And today you will be lucky enough to witness his crushing defeat."

**221C Baker Street**

When the voice on the phone hangs up, Sherlock takes a deep breath and turns around coming face to face with John who looks at him with suspicion, "Who were you talking to?"

"Take a wild guess..."

"Are you crazy?" he bursts out.

"No, John, I'm just eager to find Giulia. The killer said he left me a clue."

"Great! So he is not only a murderer and a kidnapper but also a sadistic lunatic!" John raises his voice summoning all his willpower to avoid wrapping his hands around Sherlock's throat. _If he gets to the end of the day without killing him, he'll consider it a great achievement._

The detective starts searching every inch of the small flat and after a couple of minutes he exclaims triumphantly, "Here it is!" and waves around a note he found on Giulia's pillow.

As John holds his breath, Sherlock reads it aloud.

_"_ _King William is ready to lead to the street,_  
 _Nonetheless, the Virgin Mary will set the meet._  
 _Although the Great Fire destroyed the Abchurch,_  
 _Bombings and Nazis couldn't leave it in the lurch._

_Every capital counts, have you written them yet?_  
 _Hold on to the beginning if the ending makes you upset._  
 _Take a mirror now and turn the order upside down_ _..."_

The short poem doesn't only sound macabre, but it also seems incomplete. Sherlock turns around the piece of paper and finds the last sinister line, _"_ _we reached the end, Mr Holmes, shall I start the countdown_ _?"_

_*** **Author's note** : I invented this riddle and I assure you, it is perfectly solvable. You don't need any specific knowledge or a mind palace, but just Internet connection to open up a map of London and to search for additional information (you'd have to figure out **what** to look up online first, but that's the spirit of it, isn't it?). _ _So, if you want to put yourself to the test and see if you could measure up to Sherlock Holmes, interrupt here the reading and give it a try before Sherlock solves it._ _Alternatively, you can go ahead and see the Consulting Detective at work._

_THE GAME IS ON_ _***_

None of them moves or speaks for several seconds, then John blurts out, "What's this rubbish? It sounds like a creepy nursery rhyme."

"It's a riddle. He tried to tell us where he is," Sherlock asserts.

"And how are we supposed to decipher it?"

The detective quickly scans it another time, "Let's start from the structure. Look at the spaces between the lines: they are pretty irregular. They don't follow any rhyme scheme: there are 4 verses at the beginning, then 3, and the third one rhymes with the last one on the back of the paper."

"If he disregarded simple poetry rules, it might mean that the separation between the sections serves the purpose of the clue. It's a weird set of coordinates, perhaps?" John suggests.

"That's a possibility. Let's try to go line after line. _King William_... what about him?" Sherlock looks at his friend with expectancy in his eyes.

John knits his brows in response, "Why do you ask _me_?"

"Because that's the kind of school stuff _I_ would delete, but _you_ 'd prefer to remember, for some reason," Sherlock snorts rolling his eyes at the amount of useless stuff that people usually keep in the recess of their minds.

"Well, if _my_ memory serves me correctly", the doctor teases him, "There were several monarchs called William in history; this poem is not very specific, though. How can we know who the killer refers to?"

Something snaps in Sherlock's mind when he hears John's question. "It's not _who_ , but _what_. Read the first line again: _King William is ready to lead to the_ ** _street_** _._ It's not a historical figure, but a direction: _King William Street_ here in London" he points out.

"Okay, that makes sense. Then it reads, _Nonetheless, the Virgin Mary will set the meet._ The _meet_ could mean a crossroad."

"Very good, John," the detective nods at him.

"Save your compliments for a better time. Now, why that religious reference?"

"I doubt that a killer and kidnapper could care much about faith, so my bet is it indicates a church."

"A church near King William Street, then?" John asks.

"More than that: a church on a road that _intersects_ King William Street, hence the meet. Carrying on with the lines, there's very specific information: _Although the Great Fire destroyed the_ ** _Abchurch_** _..."_

"I'm quite sure that the Great Fire destroyed dozens of parishes," John cuts him short.

"Yes, but this note contains a very peculiar and archaic word: _Abchurch,_ with a capital letter. I'd say that the word doesn't indicate an architectural space, but rather a name. Oddly enough, there is a narrow road called _Abchurch Lane_ crossing King William Street. So now we know which intersection he refers to. And I'm quite positive there is a church looking out onto that alley," Sherlock affirms rubbing his temples while consulting his mental map of London.

The doctor gapes at him, "Bloody hell! Do you happen to know every single street in this city?"

"Sort of," Sherlock smirks. "Now, please, could you check out if I am correct?"

"Already on it," John replies typing on his phone. "And there it is: St Mary Abchurch, on Abchurch Lane at the junction with King William Street, is a church dedicated to Virgin Mary," he reads the website out loud.

"Bingo!"

"St Mary's was destroyed in the Great Fire of London of 1666," John adds scrolling down the page of the history of the parish, "But there's more; the church was hit by a German bomb in September 1940 during the London Blitz, then it was completely restored."

"This explains the meaning of the next line: _Bombings and Nazis couldn't leave it in the lurch_... I must admit that our killer did his research," Sherlock comments quite impressed.

"Yeah, we should give him a round of applause!" his friend sarcastically snaps back, then he frowns, "What does it mean, by the way? Is he waiting for us at the junction of King William Street and Abchurch Lane?"

"No, there must be more than that. We need to go on with this nursery rhyme."

"It says _Every capital counts_ _._ Do you think it might have something to do with an important city?" John questions. _He hates that riddle, he detests every single moment spent on deciphering it: he gets the impression that it is only slowing them down. Why couldn't he ask for ransom like any other 'normal' criminal? Oh right, it's because he is trying to get Sherlock's attention. And with Sherlock, nothing can ever be simple or ordinary..._

"No, not that kind of capital. I believe it refers to the _letters_ , instead. Look at the rest of the line: _have you_ ** _written_** _them yet?_ He wants us to jot down the capital letters of this note," Sherlock deduces rummaging in Giulia's bags to find a pen and paper, then hurries John, "Come on, dictate only the capital letters to me!"

John takes a glance at the note: many words have capital letters. "All of them?"

"Wait..."

Sherlock's mind automatically goes through the following lines he has already memorised. " _Hold on to the_ ** _beginning_** _if the ending makes you upset_ _..."_ he repeats. "That's another clue; not every capital letter, John, just the ones at the _beginning_ of each sentence."

The doctor's eyes scan the note.

**K** _ing_  
 **N** _onetheless_  
 **A** _lthough_  
 **B** _ombings_

**_E_ ** _very_  
 **_H_ ** _old_  
 **_T_ ** _ake_

"Here they are: K - N - A - B - E - H - T... But, ' _Knabeht'_ doesn't ring any bell," he grimaces massaging his forehead in desperate search of answers.

"Because you're looking at it the wrong way. Think at the last line on the front page: it is also the last line that begins with a capital letter, and it says..."

" _Take a mirror now and turn the order upside down,_ _"_ John perfectly recalls while Sherlock takes a compact mirror and places it near the letters he wrote down so that the reflection shows the writing in reverse, from right to left. Now the letters form the words THE BANK.

"What bank?" John immediately asks as Sherlock types on his phone.

"The one situated at the corner of King William Street and Abchurch Lane," he concludes showing him the roadmap on the screen.

"Did he really give us an absurd set of coordinates of the place where he keeps Giulia?"

"I'm afraid so," Sherlock murmurs in a grim tone still staring at the screen, an icy glare veils his eyes.

"How can you be sure?"

"Because he mocked us with a final joke. Just guess the nationality of the bank..."

John pales, "Italian."

A brooding silence hovers in the tiny flat for a few seconds, then Sherlock whips around and rushes upstairs like a tornado. He starts turning his living room upside down, tossing everything away frantically.

"John, did you see my Browning?" he asks with a note of urgency barely noticeable in his voice.

"The last time I saw it, Giulia was _jokingly_ pointing it at your chest," John sighs recalling the events happened earlier that day.

"Yes, then she gave it back to me. But now I can't find it anywhere!" he protests like a toddler who has just lost his favourite toy.

"Come on, Sherlock, we need to get to that bank _immediately_! She might not have long," John urges him hinting at the door. His concern is evident: his eyes travel across the room restlessly as he fidgets with his hands, eager to spring into action. _Here's the soldier in him kicking in.  
_

"You want to remember that we are dealing with a killer," the detective points out.

"Lucky for you, I always carry my gun with me," John replies tapping the pocket of his jacket. "Now let's go!"

The detective nods, but a dark shade glides over his face as his mind starts concocting several scenarios to anticipate what comes next.

"We must notify the police of our discovery!" John exclaims dashing along the staircase.

At that exact moment, Sherlock's phone starts ringing; he pulls it out of his pocket and frowns at the screen. "It might not be necessary," he pronounces answering the call, "Lestrade, what's happening?"

John stares at Sherlock as he nods vigorously: Greg is probably delivering crucial information, but he can't hear his voice since Sherlock is pressing the phone against his ear and steps out looking around the street in search of a taxi.

"Where exactly?" Sherlock continues his conversation with the D.I. while John grows more impatient each passing second. "I was right, then. Alright, I'm on my way," he concludes and lowers the phone putting his hand in his coat pocket as John stops an approaching cab and looks expectantly at him, "What did he say?"

"He found her. She was at the bank. We did a great job with that nursery rhyme, after all," he hints at a smile trying to defuse the tension but his anguished face betrays him.

"Yeah, kudos for us... Sherlock, what happened?" the doctor stares into his eyes, but he averts his gaze. "After you phoned Lestrade, Scotland Yard instantly started a search and located the kidnapper's hiding place at the bank, where he was holding her hostage. They got there and there was a shooting..."

"Jesus... We need to go there, NOW!" the doctor cries out throwing open the passenger door of the cab.

"Wait! She's fine; the police freed her. She got into an ambulance just as a precaution. She is being taken to the hospital as we speak."

"Fine, then that's where we are going," the doctor asserts hopping in the cab and yelling the address of St. Barth's hospital. Then he turns towards his friend, "Sherlock, hurry up!"

The detective looks into the distance, "I'm not coming, John. I'll go to the bank."

"What do you mean you are not coming? She is in the hospital!"

"But she is okay. The killer, instead, is still entrenched inside the building and I have every intention of taking him down. Please, John, go!" he barely finishes his sentence before slamming the car door and signalling the cabbie to leave.

He stands on the sidewalk gazing at John's upset face as the taxi heads to the hospital.

After a moment, Sherlock pulls out of his pocket the hand that never let go of his phone and moves it closer to his ear again. The screen is still lit: he never really hung up.

"Sorry for this... chaotic answer. I'm listening to you now," he speaks on the device.

"Is it possible to know what is going on? Nobody has ever let me wait for so long, not even the Prime Minister!" Mycroft's voice petulantly rants.

Sherlock sighs, "Thank you for keeping the line open."

"Why did you call me ' _Lestrade'_ when you answered the phone?" he inquires suspiciously.

"I needed to get rid of John in a quick and _delicate_ way. He had to have a pretty good reason to run away and leave me alone."

"As if he didn't have enough already..." Mycroft comments sarcastically: he can perfectly picture his brother rolling up his eyes at his remark.

"What's this phone call about? I'm in a bit of a hurry, _brother dear,_ " the younger Holmes presses him, an unusual trace of distress taints his deep voice. He raises an arm to stop a cab and jumps in, giving the driver the address of the bank.

"I need to consult you on a very critical matter," his brother declares grinding his teeth. _Mycroft Holmes is clearly not comfortable with a sentence like that._

"You need to consult _me_? Can't you deduce everything by yourself?"

"I have... my suspicions and I'd want you to confirm or contradict them. Anyway, you seem very busy at the moment..." he notes trying to divert attention from his unwonted cry for help.

"Quite so. Why don't you ask your friends in the secret service? Oh wait, right: you don't trust them," Sherlock smirks to himself. He can distinctly hear his older brother sighing on the other side of the line before replying, "Never mind. I am probably just a bit paranoid."

"Fine. Bye!"

He is about to hang up when Mycroft stops him, "Wait, Sherlock, what is happening? I have just handed over to you on a silver platter the perfect opportunity to make fun of my paranoia and you refuse to jump at the chance to show off and patronise me? What are you dealing with?"

"A kidnapping," he quickly rebuts not getting into details.

Mycroft can sense the distance in his voice and he certainly didn't miss the urgency that has been enwrapping his every sentence. Something is wrong and the eldest doesn't intend to drop the conversation.

"Who has been abducted?" he tests the waters.

Sherlock bites his bottom lip and murmurs reluctantly, "My flatmate."

"What? Giulia has been kidnapped?" Mycroft's voice booms through the line. "Why haven't I been notified about this?" he spits out furiously but Sherlock has the impression that he is not addressing him. _Was he expecting his employees to keep him updated on that?_

"I got it under control. No need for the British government," Sherlock sneers.

"I hope so since I have not a single agent to put on this quest," Mycroft replies in a worn-out tone. Sherlock has never heard his brother that anxious. "Why couldn't the doctor go with you, by the way?" Mycroft tries to change the subject.

"This whole thing is my fault and I should fix it by myself. Please, let me be," Sherlock's guilty plea resounds resolutely over the phone.

"If it has anything to do with Moriarty, then I have every right to be made aware," Mycroft peremptorily claims.

"It's not _him."_

"How can you be certain? It wouldn't be the first time he kidnaps one of your friends to play cat-and-mouse with you."

"Exactly. He already did it with John at the pool. Moriarty would never repeat himself. He has a vivid imagination; he would find an alternative method. It's something different, this time... Someone else," Sherlock answers gloomily.

"I see. Well then, I have pressing business to take care of. I'll let you sort it out on your own. Good luck, brother mine," Mycroft's voice resonates deeper in the device. _He cannot help but worry about his little brother._

Sherlock looks out the window as the cab pulls over in front of the bank on King William Street. "I don't need luck," he snorts.

"No, of course, you don't," Mycroft whispers hanging up and praying that his sibling is not going to do anything foolish. _Wishful thinking, isn't it?_


	21. Never leave loose ends

When the cab stops in front of the bank, Sherlock shoves a couple of banknotes in the cabbie's hand hoping to put an end to his incessant complaints about _"those bloody state visits"_ and _"those damn political meetings"_ that paralyse the streets of London once in a while.

_Has he been blabbering and grumbling throughout the whole ride?_ Sherlock thinks realising that he didn't even acknowledge his presence; he was too busy skirmishing with his brother on the phone to pay the slightest attention to the world outside.

He crosses the street and checks out the entrance of the bank: the place is clearly closed, seemingly deserted. However, the moment he raises his eyes to the camera positioned above the threshold, the sliding doors open swiftly letting him in. _Someone was waiting for him._

He walks warily across the place plunged into darkness and silence, given the late hour.

"I'm here!" he announces as his voice echoes along the walls. "Isn't it what you wanted: having me here, inside this bank? Show yourself now!"

Suddenly, a single lamp on the ceiling turns on, shining a beam of light on a muscly man standing at the far end of the room.

Sherlock squints his eyes at him, baffled: _he doesn't know this person, or at least he doesn't recognise him. He would have expected someone slightly more memorable given the reference he had made regarding a past encounter._

"Welcome, Mr Holmes. What a delight to finally meet you!"

" _Delight_ isn't really the term I'd use. Now tell me where Giulia is," his voice is granitic.

The man's smug smile is accompanied by the sweeping gesture of his left hand, "Right next to me."

At that moment, one more lamp switches on a few feet away from him casting a pitiful light on the girl tied to a chair. As soon as Sherlock catches a glimpse of her like that, his ears get assaulted by an inexplicable, hammering ringing. _Is it really his heart he hears pounding in his head?_

He immediately disregards all the faulty reactions of his body and springs forward, "Giulia! How are you? Are you hurt?"

"Stop right there, Holmes! Not one step further. I am not alone and I am armed," the man affirms gesturing toward a tall guard next to him, right at the margin of the light cone. His arm is clearly visible, though: it is pointing a gun at the detective's head.

Sherlock stops in his tracks and shows his hands peacefully.

" _Unlike you,_ apparently," the man adds with a sneering grin stepping closer to the girl.

Sherlock studies his movements and clenches his fists trying to regain his calmness, "Let her go. Whatever it is that you want, this is between _you_ and _me."_

"Indeed, but I still need her. She must stay, I insist," he smiles creepily stepping next to her to caress her shoulder as she struggles to elude his touch _._

Sherlock's jaw tightens as he follows his moves. _He is enjoying himself. He is likely to be a psychopath and he clearly has a well-designed plan,_ Sherlock reflects. _There are no other options but to play by his rules._

"Who are you?"

"I am Kevin Rummer, don't you remember me?" he fakes a hurtful look.

"Rummer... I've already heard your name, once; however, I can't remember when, where or in which occasion. I suppose you were quite inconsequential, after all," Sherlock teases him.

"Forgive him, he is not very good with names," Giulia lampoons his friend just to let him know that she is okay — or at least strong enough to pretend to be okay.

Kevin turns towards her, "But I am a very special person. I am a criminal and he is the man who put me in jail, ten years ago. Just for a little domestic tiff."

A challenging flash sparkles in his eyes as he stares at Sherlock, who quickly processes that new information trying to recover everything he knows about that man.

"Oh yes, now I remember: you murdered your girlfriend and made it look like an accident. It seemed quite an ordinary case, but during verifications of your past, it was discovered that you were a former CIA agent who had disappeared after a terrible accident while on duty. At first, you were considered missing for a while. Later on, though, everyone started to believe that you had died on the field."

"I'm impressed. It would seem that you researched me thoroughly, at the time."

"I'm just mentioning the records of the investigations, which didn't neglect to mention the suspicion that you might have gone off the grid _willingly_. It was implied that you always had the tendency of going rogue," Sherlock dusts off his memories of that case.

"Those colleagues of mine, what slanderers!" Kevin complains wrinkling his nose.

"You must have given them a very bad impression, then. You were suspected of fraud against the US federal government, high treason, corruption, and conspiracy. And the funny thing is, of all the crimes you could have been charged with, you were only proved guilty of your girlfriend's murder," he snorts. _Not his fault, though: the Pentagon refused to give Sherlock full access to classified documents so he could only stick to the case Scotland Yard was fumbling around with._

"And yet you couldn't understand _why_ I killed her," Kevin taunts him.

Sherlock raises a brow, taken aback by that useless trip down memory lane. "Let me get this straight: did you come back and summon me here to dig up a cold case?"

"No, Mr Holmes, I'm here to take care of unfinished business and to give you all the answers, of course."

"Not interested, thank you," the detective fakes indifference stuffing his hands in his pockets as if he was turning down a door-to-door salesman.

"Are you sure? Because I happen to remember that something kept eluding you in my crime. You couldn't understand what my motive was, could you?"

Giulia raises a brow at her kidnapper: _he is playing with Sherlock's pride to get him to accept his challenge... Smart move._

"It was described as a crime of passion. Apparently, you found out that your girlfriend was having an affair, it drove you madly jealous and you killed her."

"Yeah, this is exactly what the prosecution told during my trial and everyone agreed with it, even my solicitor. But we both know that wasn't true. I would never commit a _crime of passion_..." he spits out that definition, almost disgusted.

"There's no such thing, anyway. Passion is not a killer instinct. Love can make people do silly things, but you don't kill someone _out of love._ Hate, anger, vengeance... those are more plausible reasons for a murderous rampage. Not to mention that you never loved your girlfriend. That was quite obvious," Sherlock points out.

"But if it was a false accusation, why didn't his solicitor try to beat the charges?" Giulia intervenes striving to keep up with them.

Sherlock blinks repeatedly at her as if he was reminded just now of her presence and the threat against her life. "Because his real motive was way worse than a jealous rage, _obviously_."

"I was positive I had committed the perfect crime," Kevin whines.

The detective rolls his eyes, "That is utopia."

"It is, with you in the spotlight; you made it quite clear, ten years ago. Had it not been for you, I'd walk away free. I could have got away with _everything_."

"No, you really couldn't. There were far too clues in your house, even for Scotland Yard. Thinking it over, it wasn't perfect at all. It was a messy and clumsy crime. You rushed it: that's a rookie mistake for a CIA agent."

If Sherlock's intent was to belittle and irritate him, he gets an unexpected reaction in turn: the man gives him a condescending look, instead. "Oh, Mr Holmes, but I wasn't talking about the murder of that dull woman."

Sherlock furrows his brow, puzzled. The killer savours his confusion for a few seconds and goes on, "It's no surprise that you still don't get it, you never solved my case after all. But I'm feeling generous and I want to give you a second chance."

"It's very kind of you, but I must refuse. I'm not in the mood," Sherlock looks daggers at him. _He is dying to prove his worth but not at the expense of someone else's life. And yet he feels uncomfortable: an old sense of defeat gets hold of him. Shreds of memories of that case haunt him like wakeful ghosts of an unburied past._ _He solved it and had him convicted, but that killer is right: he never really got to the bottom of the case, he never found all the answers. He won the game but didn't beat his adversary._

"Too bad, you're not really in the position to bargain, either. Besides, I thought you hated leaving loose ends. What a massive failure would it be if you weren't able to solve a case in front of such a lovely crowd?" he leers at Giulia with a predatory gaze. Then he focuses again on Sherlock. "Now, shall we begin?"

** Meanwhile, in a cab heading to St Barth's **

John looks out the window as the taxi speeds along the streets of London. He has almost reached the hospital when he takes a glance at his watch and a sudden thought strikes him: _Sherlock really underestimates Scotland Yard's resources._ _He always complains about the slowness of the officers, but this time they have been surprisingly fast in locating a missing person and rescuing her from her kidnapper._

_A bit too fast_.

He feels an ominous tingling at his fingertips as he quickly phones Lestrade, a sense of foreboding constricts his chest.

"Greg! How did you find out that Giulia was held hostage at that bank? I know you told Sherlock that you started a search as soon as I phoned you, but it took you less than ten minutes to call us back with all the information..."

John is still speaking animatedly when the inspector interrupts him. "What on Earth are you talking about? Do you know where Giulia is? And is she being held hostage?" he blurts out confused.

"She _was_ , that's what _you_ said. And of course, I know where; you confirmed the address of the Italian bank at the corner of King William Street. You were the one who told Sherlock about the hostage situation and the shooting inside the bank," John sums up getting more and more anxious as Lestrade proves to be completely in the dark.

"A shooting? Dear God, I knew nothing about it! I couldn't have said such a thing!" Lestrade almost shouts and, in the background, John can hear him barking orders to his officers and gathering his squad.

The doctor frowns perplexed and tightens his grip on his phone making his knuckles turn white for the pressure, "So, why did you phone Sherlock?"

"I never did. Your previous call was the first and last report I've received. We've immediately started a search, of course, but I regret to say we're getting nowhere. Did you say King William Street?" the D.I. insists eager to extract from him as much information as possible.

_He never did. He never phoned Sherlock_ , John reasons as he realises what truly happened.

"Yeah, that's right. I gotta go!" he hangs up. He takes his head in his hands. _That bastard lied just to get rid of me and go there alone..._ _Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?_

** In the meantime, inside the bank **

"You want to play? Very well, let's start from the beginning, then. Ten years ago, you killed your girlfriend and arranged everything to make it look like an accident. You created a solid alibi — or so you believed, but when I got to the scene, the clues were unmistakable," Sherlock patronises Kevin.

"But it wasn't until you saw me for the first time in the interrogation room that you felt that something was wrong; I could read the doubt and confusion in your eyes. So, tell me: what was so unsettling about me?"

At his words, Sherlock enters his mind palace. He walks down one of the hallways and steps into a room where he finds himself face to face with a younger version of Kevin. _These are his memories of that case._

He stares at the past version of the killer seated at the interrogation table, then starts to talk as if he was in a trance, "Your posture. You held yourself in an odd, lumbering way covering certain body parts and groaning at the slightest move in your seat. Most logical assumption: you were covered in bruises and the only way you could have got them was while fighting with your victim. The marks on your body were very unusual, though, as if they were the result of a peculiar combination of several martial arts and combat training..."

The present Kevin, the one standing in the bank, nods and smiles fondly at Sherlock's memories, "You are starting to reason, _finally_. That girl was a fury; she hit me hard until the very end."

Sherlock comes back to reality and raises a brow, "This doesn't come as a surprise since I perfectly remember that her body was toned and muscular. I thought she could be some sort of gym rat, but that wasn't the case: no gym membership or badge in her wallet, no gym bag in the house, no sign of workout equipment anywhere. The question was: if she tried so hard to fight her boyfriend-assailant showing such a vast knowledge of martial arts, where did she learn those moves? Who taught, or better _trained_ her?" He isn't addressing anyone specifically, his questions are only for himself.

"Good! You're getting closer. So, my bruises made you suspicious, but I am willing to bet they weren't the only thing that didn't add up. Think about her, Mr Holmes, about that dull, insignificant girl," the killer encourages him and the detective's mind travels again back in time.

Another door in his mind palace flies open revealing the crime scene he examined ten years ago. He looks at the victim's body as if it was in front of him once again and he speaks aloud describing what he sees through the eyes of memory, "Her clothes: manifestly shabby. Wait... too shabby. No one would make so many wrong choices at once. It was not by chance: it was intentional. But to what end?"

Sherlock squints his eyes and rubs his temples deducing the corpse, "She had fresh asphalt under her shoes, and so did you. Oddly enough, there were no road works near your house at the time."

"I followed her to another part of the city and found out she was cheating on me," Kevin justifies himself.

"That's a lie. During the trial, you said that you discovered that she was cheating on you when you went through the texts on her phone that she left at home. But here's another thing that doesn't fit; no one who is having an affair would ever leave their phone at home."

"And yet you still cannot understand why I killed her," he mocks him.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes: he is on the crime scene once again. "I remember one detail: her camera. She was passionate about photography and the day she was murdered she went out for a walk and brought it with her. She had just come back home when you killed her. I found her camera in the bedroom..."

"But?" Giulia intervenes. She's terrified but she is intrigued, as well.

"But there were no photos in it. Nothing at all."

"It doesn't make sense," she protests.

"He had already deleted them," the detective concludes cracking his eyes open.

"He? Why?"

The image of those traces of fresh asphalt under the victim's shoes flashes through his mind once more. "Because he didn't follow her; **she** followed _him_ and took incriminating photos of him," Sherlock affirms pointing a finger at Kevin.

"Incriminating? Why would she spy on her boyfriend?" Giulia asks confused.

_Spy_. That verb echoes in Sherlock's head as her shabby corpse appears again in his mind palace. _Spy! Of course._

"Because that was her mission." He turns to Kevin and shoots him a challenging look, "You were wrong: she wasn't dull at all. She dressed like the most insignificant girl in the world because she knew you were looking for a mediocre person to use as an anonymous, ordinary façade, while you were planning something terrible. But she wasn't ordinary. She was an agent, just like you."

_Something is not quite right, though: if she was CIA like Kevin, he could have had access to her profile inside the agency and blown her cover. It didn't matter that everyone believed that he was dead: he must have kept some useful resources._

"The theory of soulmates, how romantic!" Kevin jests interrupting his string of thoughts.

"Your romance lacks a happy ending. She was given the task of keeping an eye out on your every move and, apparently, she collected enough evidence to lock you up for the rest of your days. But you found out the truth, you fought fiercely and, in the end, you killed her right when she had discovered what your plan was."

"Which in fact was...?" the killer questions him expectantly.

At that instant, every sentence and every event of that day crosses Sherlock's mind while every single piece falls into place.

_If the victim was an agent but not CIA, she must have been with the British Secret Service, then. But the British Secret Service only means... Mycroft! Why did his brother call him earlier? He said he had his suspicions: what kind of suspicions, about who or what? Mycroft is not a paranoid person; that must be a serious matter._

_Extremely serious, indeed: he said that he didn't have any single agent to send to search for Giulia._ _Where does he need all of his agents and why?_

All these questions are storming in his brain when all of a sudden shreds of half-sentences resonate inside his skull. _The cabbie who drove him to the bank had tried to make small talk complaining about the traffic caused by some State visits and political meetings. And there's just one place where a foreign head of government would go for a meeting in Britain..._

Sherlock freezes when the solutions slips from his lips,"An attack at the Parliament."


	22. Guilty as charged

"Here we go, finally! Ten years later, the great detective Sherlock Holmes solves one of his first cases. It would make an impressing headline. Too bad no one will ever know this story!" Kevin shrugs with false regret.

"Parliament? How did you figure it out?" Giulia blurts out addressing Sherlock.

"By putting the pieces together. While I was coming here, Mycroft phoned me asking for _advice,_ odd as it may seem. He sounded stressed and worried which indicates business, possibly a State matter. He said that all his men and agents were busy; it must be something pretty serious, then. Lots of guardians mean lots of targets gathered altogether somewhere. The only question left was _where_ , but my cabbie and his rants about the traffic caused by political events helped me figure it out," Sherlock sums up impossibly fast.

Giulia frowns confused and nods at her kidnapper, "But if he is here to finish an old job, it means that the Parliament has always been his original target."

"Precisely. Ten years ago he murdered his spy-girlfriend exactly the day before the State Opening of Parliament," Sherlock clarifies and she gapes at him, "How could you remember something like that?"

"Since it was one of my first cases, I bought the newspaper the next day just to read about my success as a consulting detective. Yes, I know, I indulged in a bit of complacency; I was younger then," he arches his brows.

"Old habits die hard," Giulia comments under her breath.

"The point is I remember I was disappointed to see that the first three pages were all taken up by the information about the State Opening of Parliament. The news about his arrest came only much later. At the time, I could never imagine that the two facts were somehow related, but today I cannot ignore all the hints. The US Secretary of State landed yesterday in the UK and I'd bet that he will deliver a speech today, in Parliament. Am I wrong, Mr Rummer?"

"Right, as always, Mr Holmes. Ten years ago I chose the Parliament as my big show because I wanted to take my personal revenge against the British Secret Service. Not only they had collaborated with the CIA on the mission that almost cost my life, deciding to let my squad go on the field without a proper backup plan, but when a huge explosion blew to pieces the building I was in, they also prevented the Agency from sending someone to check if I was alive or dead. They argued that it would be _too risky an operation_. I got the message: I was disposable. What I never understood, though, was the reason why they felt the urge of putting an undercover agent on my tail to spy on me, the moment they caught wind of my possible presence in London. What threat could ever pose a _dead man_?" he smirks smugly.

"That's it? Does it all come down to revenge in the end?" Sherlock asks him in a bored, slightly disappointed tone.

"Revenge is quite often the motive of a crime. In my case, it is the motive of my whole existence. The British Service let me die (or so they thought) in an explosion at the top of my career, so I wanted to let their reputation fall apart in the explosion of the British Parliament during one of the most relevant political events. I always repay in kind."

"However, ten years ago you didn't manage to get the job done because of me. Now that you are back from prison, instead, you decided to stick to your old plan while seizing the chance to retaliate against your own country, too, against the very ones who betrayed you by never even trying to find out what had happened to you," Sherlock asserts thinking about the US Secretary of State.

"After all, my government has always suspected me of high treason and conspiracy, so why would I disappoint it right now?" Kevin rhetorically asks.

"Fine. You did this to quench your thirst for vengeance, I get it. But I still don't see how Giulia and I are supposed to be involved in all this," the detective glowers at him. _He is done playing._

He shrugs, "I took her to get to you, simple as that."

"Then why her and not John, for instance? If you just wanted to get my attention, you could have kidnapped my other flatmate," Sherlock inquires avoiding Giulia's gaze.

Kevin pretends to ponder that option while rubbing his chin, "Yeah, I'm sure you'd be quite concerned if he was in danger. Long-standing personal ties are great leverage, no doubt. But with her, there's something more. I wanted to exploit a sensitive subject between the two of you: trust."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose: _that man knows way too much_. He tries to fake indifference and nonchalantly comments, "I don't trust her. Is that all you care about?"

"And yet you are here to save her. You're so predictable! But I wasn't talking about you. The really intriguing thing is that _she_ doesn't trust you. She never told you her story, for a start," the killer teases him.

_He definitely has too much information. But then again, what else could you expect from a spy?_

"Not on my account. Whatever she may have experienced in her life, she now has great issues dealing with others and trusting them. She didn't tell John, either."

"But she told your brother."

That sentence hits the mark and Sherlock blinks repeatedly, bewildered, "What?"

"Oh, look at his face: so disoriented. She _does_ trust a member of the Holmes family and she turns to him whenever needed; I thought you'd noticed. You might want to know that they also secretly meet every week and exchange information: sometimes it's inside her university, sometimes at the library, etcetera etcetera. I discovered that they rely on each other for very delicate matters, about which you have obviously been kept in the dark. Am I lying, sweetheart?" Kevin looks menacingly at Giulia who stares back at him pressing her lips together in a flat line. Then she looks down and bites her bottom lip before lifting her eyes on the detective and whispering, "I am so sorry, Sherlock."

He stands still, arms down by his sides, eyes fixed on her guilty face and her watery eyes. _How could they do that to him, how could his own brother go behind his back?_ _To be quite honest, it's not even a big deal. They don't exactly have the best relationship. Sometimes it feels like they don't have a relationship at all._

_But her... how could_ _Giulia_ _do that to him, not telling him about those meetings, not telling anything whatsoever about her past? The worst part is he can't even be mad at her. He isn't entitled to blame her since he was the first to push her away._

He stands up tall, but he feels that something has just cracked inside him. _Trust is a hazardous weakness._

"And that's why my _dear brother_ has always been so concerned about you. You are an essential asset, aren't you?" he winces and looks her right in the eyes just for one second. Then he averts his gaze and nods, clearing his throat and becoming clear-headed again. "Fine, it doesn't matter anymore. _He_ is not here; _I_ am. And you still haven't told me what's my part in this story," he challenges the kidnapper.

"Actually, I did tell you: _I always repay in kind._ This rule applies to you as well. Ten years ago, I underestimated you and ended up behind bars just because I had committed a murder and tried to make it look like an accident. But I learnt from my mistakes and this time I promise you that I am going to be impeccable."

Sherlock immediately catches the meaning of that allusion. "I got in the spirit of your insane game: I put you in jail for murder, so I suppose you will try to frame me with homicide, too. Who will be my victim, then? You?" he jests.

Kevin's lips bend in an evil grin. "No. Her."

Sherlock keeps silent for a couple of seconds trying to convince himself that the shiver that runs down his spine is just a figment of his imagination. Then he states firmly, "I am not going to kill her. I am not going to commit a murder."

"In the end, what you really do is absolutely irrelevant. It only matters what people _think_ happened, what they _think of you_. And I am quite positive there's a couple of people in Scotland Yard who would be willing to believe that you are actually a murderer," Kevin licks his lips anticipating the shameful downfall of the great detective.

"I don't care what Sergeant Donovan and Anderson think I might be capable of doing, but I have never put a gun to anyone's head."

"So far, Mr Holmes. _So far_. There's a first time for everything. But let me explain how it goes." Kevin carefully wears a pair of gloves and announces, "You have two options. Option number 1: I shoot her with this..." and with one fluid movement, he pulls Sherlock's Browning L9A1 out of his pocket.

The detective does a double-take when he sees his firearm.

"Do you recognise it? I had an accomplice of mine borrow it from your flat while you and John were busy discovering that your little friend had disappeared. That nursery rhyme was a clever little riddle, wasn't it? It didn't take you long to decipher its meaning, but it bought enough time for my associate to break into your living room and collect something for me. As I was saying, if you choose option number one, I will kill your friend right in front of your eyes and you won't do anything to stop me. I want to remind you that you are constantly held at gunpoint," he nods to the guard aiming at Sherlock's head. "So you will stand there, frozen, and enjoy the show, but then you will take the rap for her murder."

"And how do you plan to frame me? Ensuring that I will be found here alone with her dead body and my Browning is not enough. There has to be hard evidence," Sherlock retorts. He has been on enough crime scenes to know what is necessary to convict someone.

"Oh, but there is plenty of it. Ballistics will confirm that the bullet belongs to your gun — the very one that even Dr Watson could recognise. Moreover, thanks to the game you've played out of boredom this morning with the smiley face on your wall, you have gunpowder traces on your hands. The only fingerprints that will be found on the weapon are yours, of course; I took my precautions, as you can see," he waves in the air his hands with gloves on. "Not to mention that you have a motive, too; virtually the whole neighbourhood heard your angry outbursts against her. Don't you think it might look suspicious? I am pretty sure that after your recent shouting and temper tantrum, a lot of people will be inclined to blame you for her murder," he reveals with an evil smile.

Sherlock scowls at him and hisses, "You want to turn the whole world against me? Go for it, knock yourself out. But don't think I'm defenceless: I have an ace up my sleeve," his eyes sparkle without the slightest hesitation.

"Who? Mycroft Holmes? Yeah, I am quite sure he would be willing to side with his younger brother and defend him. And he would even have the influence to spare you from a life sentence. Such a shame that he won't be there to help you out!" he pretends to pout sadly.

The detective frowns; _his brother would never miss the opportunity to throw such a thing back in his face for the rest of his days._

"What are you talking about?" he asks cluelessly.

"Mr Holmes, your fame is utterly unjustified! You're so slow!" Kevin complains. "The Parliament is my first target, remember? Your brother would never miss such a relevant political event. He is right there at this very moment, checking that everything is perfect, making sure that there isn't any threat..." he gives him a smug grin as he contemplates the perfection of his plan. "Needless to say, he is within the blast radius. You can't save him now and he won't be able to save you in the future."

The bank becomes eerily quiet as a disheartening sensation of defeat takes hold of the detective. Sherlock gazes upon vacancy for long seconds while he desperately forces his brain to come up with a solution. He processes every piece of information thrusting open all the doors in his mind palace, only to find empty rooms. _He has just one chance left, and he knows it._

He eventually surrenders and stares right into the killer's cold eyes, "And what is option number two?"

_That's a rhetorical question._

Kevin tilts his head and bares his teeth like a predator in front of its prey. "Far easier, Mr Holmes," he answers passing his guard the gun and letting him hand it to Sherlock without ever lowering his own weapon.

" _You_ shoot her."

Sherlock reaches out and slowly grabs the gun from the hands of the wary guard. He grips the butt of the Browning and weights it in his hand; he has held it so often that it almost comes naturally. He knows his own weapon so well that he doesn't even need to check the magazine to perceive that there is just one bullet in it. He looks down at the gun and tries to focus on his next move, while a disturbing thought crosses his mind: _with a weapon in his hand, is there really a line that cannot be crossed?_

Kevin glances at him and anticipates his thinking process, "Before you do something rash and reckless, let's go through every possible scenario, shall we? You are now armed and this could give the impression of levelling the playing field. Nevertheless, if you reconsidered the whole situation, you'd understand that you're still on the losing side. Let's think: what could possibly be your best bet? Aiming for my head, for starters... Wrong!" he shouts. "In the time it'd take you to lift up your arm and take aim, my friend here would put two bullets in your skull."

Sherlock takes a deep breath reluctantly excluding that option from his mental list, then looks around the dark place. He shifts his eyes on the guard who is still aiming at him and a corner of his mouth lifts upwards almost imperceptibly. But before he could make the slightest movement, Kevin forestalls him, "I know what you're thinking: everything would be easier for you if you could just overcome my guard. Once again, that would be utterly useless, because the moment you shoot in his direction, Giulia will die by my hand. I'm afraid I forgot to mention that I picked up another souvenir from your house. I thought it might come in handy."

He takes out of his pocket the multi-tool knife that Sherlock uses to stab his envelopes onto the mantelpiece. The detective immediately recognises it and closes his eyes, defeated.

"No matter what you do, you're at a dead end. She will be murdered with a weapon that belongs to you and you're going to be held responsible, anyway. You cannot save her. There is no room for a selfless sacrifice either: I'm not giving you the luxury of taking her place and play the part of the fearless knight."

"I am not a knight, not yet, technically," he theatrically rolls his eyes.

Kevin smirks at his snarky comment: _in a moment, the great detective won't be in the mood to joke any more_. He licks his lips and announces, "I must warn you, though: if you don't pull the trigger and leave me the pleasure of this homicide, instead, I promise you I won't make it quick, let alone painless. I will torture her before your eyes until she _begs_ you to shoot to spare her all the excruciating pain."

Suddenly, Kevin leans forward and pulls Giulia's chair towards him as the small wheels roll over the floor with ease. He rapidly draws the blade of Sherlock's knife and places it near the girl's cheek. Sherlock feels as if his heart has suddenly jumped in his throat preventing him from breathing. _There's no time for irrational reactions. Pull yourself together!_ he yells at himself inside his brain.

Giulia tries to wiggle out of that iron grip, in vain. The blade brushes her skin just for one second, then Kevin withdraws the knife and pushes the chair away leaving the girl paralysed in full sight under the beam of light: the perfect target. She squints her eyes, terrified. A single tear rolls down her face, passes over the little fresh cut and blends with a drop of blood, eventually turning into a crimson bead.

Kevin smugly gazes at their faces frozen in terror and declares, "Make up your mind, Holmes. Do you want to be the protagonist or the spectator of this tragedy? What's your choice, option number one or two?" he trills in a singsong fashion and the echo of his voice disperses in the room right when the detective believes to hear a door click. _Is he starting to hallucinate now? Or is there a sniper hidden in the dark pointing a red dot at his back, too?_

_Shadowy memories of a similar scene (one of his friends kidnapped, the doomed confrontation with a criminal in a deserted building) are projected inside his mind like frames on a screen._

Sherlock breathes in and swallows hard slowly regaining control over his body. "I don't see why it should be relevant. The outcome is always the same: she dies and everyone will think I am the murderer."

Giulia looks daggers at him, a faint red trace still on her cheek: _does he realise he is talking about her death?_

"But what will _you_ think of yourself? Jail time never passes, I can tell you. And a feverish mind like yours could do terrible things; it can torment you for months, drive you crazy. What will you think when you are locked up? Will you blame yourself for not being able to save her, or will you also feel guilty about killing her with your own hands?"

Sherlock sighs. That man is right about one thing: _the conscience is the only court before which everyone is always tried, in the end._

"That's it, then. You don't only wish to destroy my reputation and see me rot in jail. You also want to turn me into a monster," the detective finally realises.

Kevin smiles proudly at him: _Sherlock Holmes is about to fall. Oh, the satisfaction of that moment... He has waited ten endless years to taste it._

"Time's up! The choice is all yours."

Sherlock exhales and raises his Browning toward the girl, aiming at her head.

"I never had a choice and we both know that," he murmurs. He isn't addressing Kevin, but Giulia.

She slightly nods: _she wishes she had the strength to tell him that she understands and forgives him. She wishes she could be strong for him and tell him that everything is going to be alright, but that would be lying. She wishes she could be strong for herself and embrace death peacefully. It seems just right: she managed to ditch the Grim Reaper before, but she can't escape it forever. But the truth is she is not ready to die._

She closes her eyes and waits for the end.

A few seconds before his finger can pull the trigger, Sherlock hears a whisper coming from the opposite side of the room. Just a couple of words: _Vatican Cameos._

Then a gunshot echoes in the room.


	23. Hide and seek

When the gunshot resonates in the bank, Sherlock instinctively crouches down gripping his Browning tightly in his hands and kneeling in a firing position. He sees the expression on the killer's face changing rapidly: his scornful grin is instantly replaced by a wince of pain. Kevin brings both his hands to his hip where a dark red stain spreads across his clothes. He collapses to the ground howling like a wounded beast.

Sherlock's brain takes a moment to understand what's going on. _Someone has just shot Kevin. Not just someone, but the only person who would whisper to him the words 'Vatican Cameos' in a dangerous situation: John Watson._ _John is in the room right now. More specifically, given the angle of the shot and the origin of that whisper, he must be right behind his back._

His conclusions are confirmed when the guard quickly scans the room with his eyes and aims in his general direction. In a flash of lucidity, the detective raises his gun and shoots at the nearest light precipitating almost the whole room into the darkness.

"Dammit! Why didn't you try to hit him, instead?" John complains trudging clumsily in the dark, just a few feet away from him.

"Because I had just one bullet: if I missed, I'd have been a dead man. So, I decided to become more difficult a target," Sherlock calmly explains trying to think and take stock of the situation.

"You mean that you are completely unarmed now?" John murmurs through gritted teeth. "I thought we could overcome them."

"We still can. One of them is down and the other is blind."

"So are we, Sherlock!"

"Well then, _Captain_. It's time to dust off your army skills. You take care of that big guy, while I free Giulia," he commands slipping away in the dark.

"Copy that," John promptly replies and crawls on the floor while his eyes search the room looking for the guard.

Sherlock slides silently next to the girl still tied to the chair.; when he is just a few feet away from her, he hears her muttering something under her breath, it looks like she is reciting a sequence of numbers. "17...34...51...68..."

He touches her arm softly to wake her from her trance and she flinches in fear.

"It's alright, it's me," he whispers in a vaguely reassuring tone. "We need to get rid of these ropes and we are going to do it together, okay?" he comes within her visual range and stares into her eyes as she nods quivering visibly. "I do need your cooperation: help me find the multi-tool knife he stole from my apartment," he states fiddling with her bonds in the dim light.

At the far end of the room, they hear John assaulting and disarming the guard, then getting into a fistfight with him. Giulia and Sherlock look in his direction for a second, then their eyes meet again: he can read fear and horror in her gaze, but he is not sure how to comfort her.

_He is not good at it. He cannot deal with emotions; they would cloud his judgement._ _However, it doesn't take him his deduction skills to know that she needs him right now._

He averts his gaze searching the ground for his blade and murmurs, "Listen, I know it's hard, but I promise we will survive." He finally spots his knife and starts to cut the ropes while she ironically replies, "Sherlock, has anyone ever told you not to make promises you can't keep?"

He shrugs and smirks, "If they did, I wasn't paying attention."

He is almost finished loosening the grip around her wrists when he feels a cold object pressed against his temple. "Freeze!" Kevin's voice booms throughout the room, causing even John to stop in the middle of the fight to look at them. The killer is pointing a small handgun at Sherlock's head while pressing his other hand on his blood-dripping wound.

The detective closes his eyes and groans waiting for the bullet to pierce his brain: _if that's the end, he is going to be infinitely disappointed._

"Say your prayers, Holmes," Kevin hisses fighting through the unbearable pain of his wound.

_In that minuscule fraction of time, Sherlock feels as if the whole world stopped, frozen in time and space. He enters his mind palace but he must be quick: after all, he only has a split second. Still, that's more than enough to decide how he will die: he is going to take Kevin with him._

_He realises that he still has his multitool knife in his hand. If he is quick enough, he could dart to his left while turning halfway around, raise his right hand and stab him right in the chest. Obviously, in the time it would take him to perform this movement, Kevin will probably react, adjust the aim and shoot him dead. But at least, he would bring him down, too. A life for a life._

The split-second has passed: Sherlock is back to reality again and smirks cruelly, "I pray that Hell truly exists because I'd love to torture you for all eternity _."_

He is about to leap to his death when a deafening roar erupts in the room. Everyone's head turns instinctively towards the source of the sound and they all witness as one of the doors is torn off the hinges.

"I feel like you just stole my line. Freeze! Drop your weapon, now!" a familiar croaky voice orders Kevin.

Detective Inspector Lestrade and his police team spread out in the room, guns blazing. The killer reluctantly drops the handgun and surrenders while, on the other side of the room, his guard is cuffed.

Sherlock stares wide-eyed at the scene struggling to fully comprehend what is going on. "How did you know we were here?" he mumbles dazed.

Greg turns towards him and frowns: _just three seconds before he was about to get a bullet in the head and the first thing that crosses his brain is to inquire about police response time? Typical of him!_

He answers, "John told me, over the phone. In fact, he _accidentally_ blurted out that Giulia was held hostage at an Italian bank at the corner of King William Street assuming I already knew everything. Then he hung up hurriedly, so it was clear that there was a massive problem at this address. We came as soon as possible."

"Impeccable timing, Inspector," Sherlock stands up to shake his hand and Greg reciprocates the handshake, surprised by his unexpected kind words. _That must be the first (and possibly last) time Sherlock compliments him. Is that a side effect of a near-death experience?_

"You!" John angry voice echoes behind his back. Sherlock turns around to face him, "Save your breath. I already know all your _frankly wide_ vocabulary of insults."

"You've been so stupidly reckless!" the doctor bursts out.

"All in all, that's actually one of the nicest things you've ever said to me," Sherlock sarcastically points out.

"Why did you lie to me?"

"I did it for your own..."

"Don't even start!" John cuts him short lifting a hand in front of his face. "It was _not_ to protect me; I can perfectly look after myself. And don't you dare say that you did it for Giulia since you almost got her killed."

Sherlock bites his lip and awkwardly clears his throat, "I may have made a miscalculation and underestimated my opponent."

"Or rather, you overestimated yourself. You're such a show-off!"

"I simply thought the whole situation was my fault and I wanted to set things right," he simply admits renouncing witty comebacks.

John stares into his eyes. _He is not lying, that's his plain truth._ _He wasn't trying to play the part of the hero. He really felt somehow responsible for Giulia and what was happening to her. But it's Sherlock: why would he care?_

"Yeah, well, don't do it again," the doctor almost pleads him.

"Promise," he jokingly lays a hand on his heart and smirks. "I know that the soldier in you hates to miss all the action."

"You idiot..." John mutters under his breath walking away with a faint smile.

Sherlock smiles back, then turns around in time to see a shadow approaching the scene. When he finally focuses on the silhouette, he grimaces perplexed. _That's the last man he expected to see there at that moment._

"Mycroft, what the hell are you doing here?" he exclaims when he sees his brother walking inside the bank.

The eldest Holmes stops in the middle of the room and casually leans against his umbrella grimacing, "This isn't the warm reception I was expecting to receive."

"Pardon me, nobody told me I was part of the _welcoming committee,_ " Sherlock snaps back.

Mycroft glowers at him, then the corners of his mouth bend in a grin, "Oh, I see why you are so angry to see me. You are disappointed that I am not _dead_."

"Disappointed that I won't get the whole of our parents' inheritance? Maybe. But I'd rather say _surprised_. What happened, or rather, what stopped a catastrophic event from happening at the Parliament?"

"It was me, of course," Mycroft states proudly indulging in a moment of self-appreciation. "During our call, I told you that I had doubts and suspicions about a delicate business, and I am quite positive now you know perfectly well what I was talking about," he hints at the political meeting at the British Parliament and Sherlock silently nods letting him continue. "I could feel that something wasn't right, so I intensified the level of security. I made my agents search everywhere for the slightest threat until they found a bomb hidden in the security control room. It was promptly disposed of, and nobody in the building got hurt. As to how that device ended up there, it is still a mystery that I hope our American spy will unravel soon," he stares ominously at the man who is handcuffed and driven away in the police cars.

"The security control room? Ironic and quite impressive. How can a single man arrange all that?" Sherlock protests.

Mycroft shakes his head slowly, "He can't. I am inclined to believe he is part of an organisation or a criminal network. Needless to say, you should tread carefully..."

His younger brother rolls up his eyes and changes the subject, "You still haven't replied to my first question: what are _you_ doing here?"

The eldest Holmes casually loosens the knot in his tie, his face visibly stressed after the long, intense day. "Checking on my little brother, of course. My employees kept me updated on your movements and when I got wind that the police were coming here, I came too. I constantly worry about you, brother dear."

"You're lying," Sherlock snorts straight away. "This is precisely the second time you've shown up on a case in which Giulia is directly involved. I would call it a coincidence, but I know all too well what you think of coincidences... Moreover, that spy was not only a mediocre criminal but also a blabbermouth. He said that you secretly meet Giulia on a weekly basis to exchange information. What's happening here, _brother mine_?"

Mycroft recoils at that mention and eagerly retorts, "None of your business!"

"She lives under my roof; it is my business, indeed. I want the truth, Mycroft," Sherlock acts up.

"And you'll have it... but nor from me. She will tell you when she's ready. For the moment, just know that it is a matter of her past."

"I know from _personal experience_ that the past will always come back to haunt everyone, sooner or later," he thoughtfully affirms looking around the bank. _A case he thought he closed ten years ago almost ruined his present and compromised his future._ _Demons, ghosts, shadows... whatever we leave behind without a confrontation are never really gone: it all dwells silently in the shadows until it surfaces back again._

"This time it's different," Mycroft objects stealing a glance at the girl. A team of paramedics called there by the police is checking her conditions.

"How?"

" _She_ is haunting it _,"_ Mycroft allusively replies, then clears his throat, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to ask about Giulia's health status," and with that, he walks away swinging his umbrella in the air. As he comes near the girl, he gently places a hand on her shoulder startling her and making her jump in her seat.

"It's just me. I am sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he murmurs in a tone slightly softer than his usual icy arrogance.

She lifts her gaze on him and shakes her head trying to get rid of the sudden fright. "Hello, Mycroft. Sorry I reacted like that. I might be a bit oversensitive right now."

"It's perfectly understandable. Are you alright?"

"I'm alive; that's a start."

"I'm here because I have sensitive information for you," he drops his voice to a whisper cutting to the chase.

She arches her brows, surprised, and mumbles, "I thought you'd prefer to meet in less crowded places," she hints at the bunch of people that know them both. Although, in fairness, nobody is paying attention to them.

"Now that Sherlock has found out about our meetings, I'm certain he won't give you a break: he will follow you everywhere. Honestly, it's been a rough day, and I haven't the resources or the strength to go play hide-and-seek with my brother. So, please, just do me a favour and try to gesture widely while you talk so as to give the impression that you're describing what just happened to you."

"Got it!" she begins to emphasise every word with movements of her hands. "I am all ears now: what did you find?"

"We think that the person we suspect to be behind the events that destroyed your life last year is currently in London. I cannot give you further details at the moment: verifications are still ongoing. It's a little more than whispers, but it's enough for me to believe it is no longer safe for you to stay here. You should start thinking about a new city."

She holds his gaze, "No. I came here to have answers and some closure, and I have every intention to get to the bottom of my story."

He can read a fierce determination in her eyes, so he simply nods. "Fine, but please allow me to put a personal security detail on you. I used to think that my brother was the most dangerous threat in Baker Street, but after the events of today, I realised that far worse evils await in the darkness."

"I don't want a security detail. But if it makes you feel better, I'd say that just one man will be enough," she concedes: _she is fairly certain that Mycroft Holmes is not very used to take no for an answer, and she will be no exception._

"Deal. From now on, you'll have a guardian angel," Mycroft approves jotting down some notes on his agenda.

"Sounds perfect to me. Go get some rest now; you look like you need it," she smiles feebly at him noticing the dark circles under his eyes.

He raises his head imperiously regaining his composure, "Good night, Ms Giulia. Take care of yourself."


	24. Identity crisis

When his brother leaves the bank, Sherlock approaches Giulia and gives her a faint smile, "I think it's time to go. We've been in here for far too long."

She nods silently and they hop on a cab while John stays at the thwarted-crime scene to describe to the police officers both the shooting and scuffle in which the three of them almost lost their lives.

The girl and the detective keep quiet during the first part of the ride, both of them immersed in their own worlds, lost in thought. After a while, Giulia stares absent-mindedly out the car window and mutters, "I don't understand the very beginning of all of this: was the ex-CIA agent also the murderer of the Alpes?"

"Yes," is Sherlock's laconic answer.

She turns her head to look at him, struggling to put all the pieces together. "But how are today's events connected to that homicide?"

"They aren't, not directly, at least. _I_ was the only connection,” he replies shortly.

"Why did he kill that man, then?" she insists. _She wants some answers and she is going to have them no matter what, even if she has to force every word out of him._

He sighs and surrenders, "To let me know that he was a dangerous murderer – a psychopath that was out for blood. It was like a threatening letter to me. He wanted me to know that I got a target on my back, and so did all the people around me. It was not about killing someone, he couldn't care less about that skier: all he wanted was to draw my attention and get a reaction. He chose an unattached man, quite difficult to identify without documents, to engage Lestrade in the investigation, knowing that he would resort to me. In the end, the homicide was just a means to challenge me and lure me into his crazy game."

"And why the Alpes?" she asks again.

Sherlock raises a brow at her: _less than an hour before, that girl was kidnapped, held hostage and had a gun pointed at her head. Necessary addition: he himself – her hideous flatmate who had kicked her out that very afternoon was the one holding the gun, on the verge of taking her life. And now, all she has to say to him is inquiring about a poor devil's death that was merely a distraction._

He thinks about it, _Maybe that's the profound difference between the two of them: to him, that death was the insignificant collateral damage of a story that could have reaped many more victims. But to her, every life counts._

He stares at her: _perhaps, that's why she embodies a mystery he seems unable to unravel. He cannot figure her out: she is not like him, neither does she behave like other people. He has always thought that she was ordinary and in some ways, she is. Ordinary people worry about death, about murder victims; they would be concerned about that loss, just like she is now. But not after what has just happened. Normal people would be in shock; an ordinary girl would hate him for what he put her through. Why doesn't she?_

He realises several seconds have passed, and she is probably waiting for an answer. "I told you when Lestrade initially phoned us about the case: pay attention to my words! That criminal wanted to prove that he knew who my friends were. He managed to catch Lestrade's attention even when he was on holiday miles away from home. He aimed to instil the fear that nobody was safe, _anywhere_ ," he specifies reluctantly.

_Fear. Was he actually scared in the bank? That's ridiculous! In the end, he wouldn't even care if he was framed for murder: he would find a way to help himself out, he always does. Then why had he experienced some blurry moments of... trepidation (to put it kindly)?_

"You aren't suggesting that the Great Sherlock Holmes got scared, are you?" she jibes him.

Sherlock turns towards her, "Sometimes my body betrays me. I wish I could always control everything, but every once in a while I'm forced to deal with this inefficient human nature. Which brings me to another point. I think I owe you an explanation for what happened: what Kevin Rummer did was playing with my mind, with my false sense of security. I suppose you should know that I do not hate you, I do not find you annoying. And I definitely didn't want you to leave the flat. I was just trying to protect you. I pushed you away hoping that you'd be safer away from me; I wanted to move you out of the target pinned on my back.”

He sighs, “But I couldn't tell you the truth because I know how stubborn you are, and I knew you would never comply with my requests and walk away of your own free will. So I started acting like a jerk to get on your nerves. The point is, I thought it would be easier; I was convinced that a couple of rude words would make you run away. But that wasn't the case, _obviously_ , and you didn't give up. So eventually, I came to the conclusion that the only way of getting rid of you was to _break_ you. That's why I faked some unjustified outbursts during which I said things I didn't think..."

He takes a deep breath. _Regret is such a useless feeling_ , he mentally grumbles. "I said things that I am not proud of. My apologies."

He exhales. _Gosh, that was hard. Do people do that all the time, admit their mistakes and apologise? Ghastly._

She is gaping at him. _Is he serious? None of it was real? What... What? All those horrible things, all those subtle and explicit insults... Did he fake it all?_

"It was all an act, then? You weren't really that mad about your drugs, about me touching your possessions or simply living with you?" she gawks at him.

"I admit I was slightly bothered about the drugs, but I might have exaggerated it a bit, for the sake of my little scene. And for your own sake, of course,” he shrugs with an innocent smile.

She draws a deep breath. It takes her an entire minute to soak in the truth about Sherlock's rude behaviour towards her. Then she exclaims, "Stupid. Oh, so stupid."

He looks down and nods slightly, "Yeah, I know: not the wisest idea in the world, apparently."

She shifts in her seat to face him and shakes her head, "No, I wasn't talking about you. I was blaming _me_ , actually. I should have seen it coming, I should have immediately understood. I used to think I knew you better than that."

_This man is the most fascinating mystery she has ever encountered. An enigma, a coded message with no cypher to interpret it. She'll just have to grope her way along._

He looks intently at her for a few seconds, then averts his gaze, "I could say the same about you. What the killer said..."

"He was wrong about me," she interrupts him, "I do trust you." Her voice is clear: no hesitation, no wavering. _She means it, which make it all the more unsettling for Sherlock. Because he knows that the truth is the other way round: he is the one who doesn't trust her._

He raises a brow, unconvinced, "Then why haven't you told me your story?"

Her eyes travel all over his face before landing on his, "Because letting you into my world would mean exposing you to grave danger, and I just wanted to protect you."

"I don't need _protection,_ "he spits out as if the mere idea was absurd.

"Maybe you don't, but I've already lost enough people in my life. I don't like to put my friends in harm's way because of me,” she murmurs, her voice edged in guilt.

He is about to reply but stops dead and gapes at her, an unreadable look in his eyes. She cocks a brow at his sudden loss for words.

"Am I your... _friend_?" he stumbles on the last word.

Her fond smile lights up her features, "Yes, you are. You were there for me in my time of need – namely, my arrest on suspicion of murder, then my abduction and attempted homicide. You make fun of me all the time, you share your cases and your insane, disturbing world with me. That conforms to my definition of a friend. Do you have a problem with that?"

He shakes his head slowly, "No. I guess I simply thought that you'd distanced yourself, that you had started to consider me just like your rude junkie flatmate."

She hints at a smile and looks away while her mind almost screams, _That be so much easier._ _Oh, Sherlock, you have no idea how much I'd want to._

"Giulia, if I am your friend, don't ever lie to me again," he demands resolutely.

She tilts her head and frowns: his voice was deep, low. _Is he hurt or only disappointed?_ "Technically, I never lied to you. I omitted some things..."

"Like the secret meetings with my brother, for instance," he cuts her short glowering at her. She cannot hide the guilty look on her face and bites down her lower lip.

"Why Mycroft?" he inquires squinting at her.

She sighs, "Can't you deduce why?"

"Yes, but I'm done guessing. I want to hear the truth from your mouth,” he crosses his arms on his chest, waiting for a long due explanation.

"Because he is at the head of a very delicate operation of the British Secret Service. He is my contact in the intelligence," she explains, her words barely more than a whisper.

He snorts, "That was plainly obvious. Don't try to trick me while feeding me crumbs: I'm quite observant. I've been watching your little dance all along, I noticed all the details; for example, the fact that on our second case together, _Mr British Government_ immediately responded to your distress call by providing all the documents that would let you off the murder charges. Also, he ensured that Scotland Yard kept _no records at all_ of your temporary custody; your name, picture, any reference had to disappear completely from the police archives. I saw him personally handing a note to Detective Inspector Lestrade: I don't doubt it was a formal request of silence and oblivion signed by the Secret Service," Sherlock comments sarcastically before going on, "I know my brother's role in the M.I.6. What I'm asking, though, is for you to tell me what's _your_ role in it. Why are you involved with the intelligence, why do you have a new identity? Did you testify against a drug lord? Were you in a criminal organisation that you are now helping to bring down?"

"Do you really think I would be capable of those things?" she replies surprised.

He shrugs and hisses, "I don't know what to think anymore. And I don't like it."

She takes a deep breath. _Time for some truth_. "Not so long ago, I had a perfect life, but perfection is not a thing of this world, and one day it all ended. To be more accurate, someone ended it."

He narrows his eyes, "Who?"

"That's the million-dollar question. I don't know...yet. All I know is that it wasn't just one person, and I'm not the only one on their tracks. When my life was falling to pieces, I stumbled upon an investigation of the British Secret Service: they were tracking down a nebulous criminal web that seemed to be responsible for the end of my world, too. When it was clear that my case and theirs were connected, I became a source of information and a sensible asset: I had to be protected, to be consulted about my life and what could have pushed that organisation to cause all that trouble. The more links we could unearth, the easier it would be to identify the person behind it all, the very source. Consequently, I demanded to be kept updated about all the developments in the investigation: trust me, I have every intention to find out who destroyed my life. So, to answer your question, by some twist of fate, I found myself in your brother's path: he was at the head of the operation and he brought me in. He granted me protection and hid me by transferring me from city to city for months. In the end, he let me settle in London. I asked to have my freedom back and he gave it to me with a note left in my hotel room: I was on my own, no more security details, no more secret facilities in which I felt like a jailbird. No more anonymity. He provided me with a new identity and the chance at a new life: I could start over. The investigation is still ongoing, though..."

"And that's why you two secretly meet: he is keeping you in the loop,” he concludes.

She nods quietly.

"Now that you've finally painted the whole picture, I would very much like to know why the two of you pretended not to know each other when Mycroft came to the flat a few days after you had moved in," Sherlock glares at her, but she smiles in reply.

"Believe it or not, that was indeed the first time we met. I knew he was the man calling the shots on the investigation, but I had never had the opportunity to meet with him face to face. He was just a voice on the other end of the line. A voice without a name, but just a letter: M. When he introduced himself in Baker Street, I found the answers to my suspicions. I had heard whispers about him: I spent months in the company of agents that let slip some comments on the 'all-powerful' Mycroft Holmes – a legendary figure at the top of the MI6. Those hints, coupled with your complaints about your sibling and his shady business aside from the government, drew quite the picture. When he walked into the flat and scrutinised me as if he knew exactly who I was, it wasn't too difficult for me to connect the dots. His reputation preceded him, and his attire was unmistakable: not a field agent, but..."

"The puppetmaster," Sherlock talks over her with a grimace. He is annoyed: _he should have seen it coming, somehow._

"I've been honest with you, now I want the truth, too. If John..." she stops mid-sentence overwhelmed by emotion, but she strives to go on, "If John hadn't shown up, would you have..."

"Shot you?" he finishes her sentence. She silently nods looking straight into his eyes.

He furrows his brow and his gaze glides to the window, "I was thinking about a way out of that awful situation. I couldn't let him torture you, to begin with. And I knew that John was on his way," he starts jabbering.

"No, you didn't,” she exposes him.

He sighs, "Okay, maybe I didn't, but you know him: he can be very resourceful sometimes,” he wanders off, and she gives him a stern look. "Sherlock..."

"Fine, I did think about shooting _at_ you, but I would have never killed you. I was pondering the idea of causing minimal damage with a surgical wound and use that act as a diversion to gain the upper hand,” he confesses.

She reflects on his words and closes her eyes. For a second, she feels as if she was in the bank again. Her mind re-enacts the scene and she relives it all over again: _Sherlock raising the gun and pointing it at her with a conflicted look on his face. Not just a torn expression, but with guilt in his eyes. She imagines how things would have gone, had he pulled the trigger._

She flinches terrified at the scenario playing in her head and doubles over, quivering. Sherlock studies her startled reaction and stares at her, hesitant. _What should he do? He is her friend, apparently. How do friends help cope with fear and trauma of kidnapping and attempted murder?_

She clenches her fists trying to hide the tremor in her hands, but he has already noticed it. _Should he take her hand in his to steady it? But that would be too personal, wouldn't it? That kind of human touch... it's something he is not familiar with. Maybe he could reassure her with words, then? But what could he ever say to her?_

Then he has a sudden epiphany. "17...34...51...68..." he starts reciting, and her shivers immediately stop replaced by utter astonishment.

He smirks proudly. _It didn't take him long to realise what she was doing inside the bank._

"How do you...?"

"I heard you. When the lights went off and you were all alone tied to that chair, you were always adding up the number 17. Why?" he inquires with genuine curiosity.

When she starts speaking, an instinctive smile bends the corner of her mouth upwards, "My father taught me that method: it helps me deal with panic in stressful situations and prevents me from spiralling out of control. One time, when I was little, he and I got stuck in an elevator. I'm not very claustrophobic but I was just a kid and got scared. My father noticed and asked me to do simple additions. He gave me numbers and asked for the sum: he was just trying to distract me by keeping my mind focused on maths. It worked: panic didn't take over, and I managed to keep a cool head. It became our little 'panic button' system. I've been using it ever since."

"And since your father was not with you at the bank, you had to come up with the numbers to add. Why 17?" he asks.

"It's my birthday and my dad's favourite number. It symbolizes self-discipline, compassion, independence and wisdom. It's for people who are soft and strong at the same time, those who are leaders and want to change the world: it reminds me of my father,” she ends in a whisper.

He spots a veil of sadness in her eyes and asks tactfully, "Do you miss him?"

She clears her throat, "Immensely."

A sudden thought dawns on him: _if she went through all that on her own with the complicity of the Secret Service, what about her family? Are they somewhere safe, too?_

He moves closer. "Where is he now?"

She gets choked up, and her eyes fill with tears, "Bloody good question."

He frowns for a second before grasping the full meaning behind her words. "Oh, my... I'm sorry, I had no idea."

"It's okay," she gives him a tightlipped smile. "I believe in Heaven, and I know that wherever he is, he's looking after me."

* * *

The cab pulls over next to the curb and they hop off. Standing on the pavement, Sherlock suddenly realises that they are at Baker Street, and he looks around almost disoriented, "Sorry, I instinctively gave the cabbie this address, but maybe you had already planned to spend the night elsewhere before you were abducted. I can hail another one for you if you want," he stops talking because she has already walked to the dark door with the shiny 221 plaque on it.

"It's already been several months since I came here for the first time," she whispers recalling that early-autumn evening. _On the outside of that house, it looks as if nothing has changed, but inside everything has._

"And for some reason, you decided to walk through that door and be besieged by my deductions," the detective points out.

She raises a brow at those memories, "You gave me quite an impression."

"I should have known by our first meeting that you weren't that easy to get rid of. I wanted you to run away outraged and you ended up mesmerised, instead. Still, you must have thought I was mad, at least for one second."

"Maybe two or three, yeah," she smirks, teasing him.

"And yet you stayed," he states as if it was almost impossible to conceive.

She nods, "Yes."

"Do you still think I am mad?" he cautiously asks. His tone is serious: he is not joking now.

"You've just pointed a gun at me, so yes,” she feigns an offended expression before pushing the door open. On the threshold, she turns around to look at him with a playful smile on her lips, "And what does it say about my future behaviour?"


	25. Under false pretenses

** Two weeks later. 24 December. **

Back to... no, not really back to how things were before. That would be impossible. And not even back to normal, because there is no such thing at 221 Baker Street.

"Sherlock, where are you?" Giulia's words are barely audible over the joyful racket coming from the living room. The girl walks along the narrow corridor and knocks on the door of his bedroom. No answer at all. She sighs and bursts the door open to reveal the detective sitting in a corner of his bed, his back turned to the threshold.

"Here you are. What are you doing holed up in your room on Christmas Eve? Come on, join us! We're playing a board game with the help of some glasses of wine," she giggles at his back; he hasn't even turned around to face her. "It's fun. Come with me," she cheerfully adds while stretching out a hand towards him.

He turns slightly and looks at her over his shoulder, mumbling, "No, thank you. I'd rather stay here."

"Okay, I got it. You don't like celebrations with happy and slightly drunk people," she pronounces, flopping down onto the mattress, next to him.

He doesn't even lift his gaze on her when he talks back, "Let's just say that social interactions aren't my cup of tea. And alcohol only numbs my capabilities and slows down my mental process: why would I even want to drink it?"

She sighs heavily: _she doesn't have a comeback for that and she is quite tipsy herself, which doesn't help to come up with a witty reply. After all, she knew all along that he would never follow her_. "I understand. And since we exchanged gifts while you were busy wallowing in isolation, I thought I could just bring mine here to you. I bought you a present," she says softly handing him a package draped in a crooked ribbon: she is not good at wrapping, that's quite evident.

Sherlock seems taken aback for a moment and frowns at the object in his hands, "A present? It really wasn't necessary." He finally raises his eyes on her and furrows his brow, ill-at-ease, "I didn't buy you anything."

"Don't worry: I didn't expect you to," she shrugs nonchalantly.

"And I didn't expect you to spend the Christmas holidays here and not with your family..." he retorts, but his words fade in his mouth as he suddenly realises: _What a colossal, disrespectful, obnoxious imbecile! Only two weeks before she told him about the sorrowful passing of her father, and now he rubs salt in the wounds. His mouth definitely works too fast – faster than his conscience, at least._

He starts apologising clumsily, "Sorry, I wasn't thinking..."

"That'd be a first," she replies ironically. She gives him a hard look and stares down fidgeting with her hands while the room sinks into silence. Then she stands up, and her expression changes dramatically, "I don't want to be sad on Christmas Eve. So now, please, open the packet," she urges him like an excited toddler.

The detective peers at her smiling face, trying to spot the crack in the facade but she doesn't flinch: _she is insanely strong. How can she pull herself together so gracefully?_

He unwraps the package and grimaces, "Oh, it's a book: how original."

She glares at his feigned reaction, "It's _Treasure Island_ by Robert Louis Stevenson. It's a pirate story."

"I know what it is about,” he replies shortly.

She swallows hard: _she knew Sherlock wasn't the most exuberant person in the world, but she was hoping for a slightly more enthusiastic reaction. Whenever she makes a step in his direction, he seems to recoil._

"I just thought you might like it," her whisper is tinted in disappointment as she shuffles towards the door to go rejoin the party in the living room.

Sherlock's words stop her. "I do, I really do. Thank you, Giulia," he finally cracks a smile to her, causing the girl to lift her head and smile in reply. "You're very welcome."

After a few seconds of awkward silence, he clears his throat and inquires, "Did John buy you anything?"

"He did. Here it is: do you like it?" she shows him her right hand and twists her fingers.

Sherlock stares at her middle finger and stutters, "A ring... it's a _ring_."

The girl nods and casually leans against the doorjamb, "Yes, as you can see. Something's wrong with it?" she tries to read his indecipherable mood change.

He quickly shakes his head, "No, I suppose not. It's just that a ring means some sort of _commitment._ "

She bursts into laughter. "Sure. And I am certain that a painted-wooden ring bought at a stand in a charity market unequivocally indicates that we are going to be bound forever," she replies sarcastically.

He struggles to come up with a justification, "I was just stating that..."

"You were _implying,"_ she cuts him short. "The truth is, he simply noticed that I usually wear jewellery, more specifically rings, so he gave me one as a Christmas present. I like it: it's thoughtful. Why do you think it is wrong?"

He wonders the same. _What was he questioning? What was he reacting to and why that harshly?_

"I don't. It was nice of him, actually," he gives her a tight-lipped smile, then tries to bring the conversation back on track adding boastfully, "For the record, I've known you were a ring girl since day one. I also made a deduction about one of your jewellery."

"A wrong one, if my memory serves me well," she snaps back with a smirk.

All of a sudden, he springs to his feet and quickly walks past her, murmuring, "I gotta dash."

He grabs his coat and scarf from the coat rack and steps out the flat under the confused gaze of every person standing in the living room: Molly, Lestrade, John and Mrs Hudson.

Giulia chases after him, "Sherlock, wait. Where are you going?"

"Out!" he laconically shouts from the stairs, then a loud thud echoes in the room when he slams the front door.

* * *

After several hours, Sherlock finally comes back home. He steps into his silent apartment; the guests have left and the living room is empty again. The Christmassy music has been turned down, and Molly's embarrassed high-pitched voice doesn't resound in the flat anymore. All lamps have been turned off and now just the sequence of twinkle lights framing the windows shed some light in the darkened room. Giulia is sitting in Sherlock's armchair, sipping a cup of tea.

"Is the party over yet?" he asks her.

She arches her brow, "Do not pretend to be sad: it isn't necessary."

"I would never do that. I'm rather glad everyone left," he candidly replies, and she shakes her head. _This man has no clue about human nature._

He walks to the centre of the room and hands her a package, "Here. This is for you."

Giulia shoots an intrigued look at the man towering over her and cautiously unwraps the present. She silently stares at the open box in her hands for a few seconds, then lifts it up to observe it in the pale light.

"It's a gun," she states confused.

"That's my Christmas present for you," he nods. _Wow, she is slow, sometimes. That was fairly obvious, wasn't it?_

"Is that why you went out under snowfall on Christmas Eve? To get me a present?" she stares at him with wide eyes.

"Yeah. Gun stores were closed, _obviously_ , but I have my connections and my homeless network. This is the best I could find," he shrugs.

"You gave me a gun for Christmas," she repeats as if it was too absurd a concept to process.

Sherlock studies her reaction, perplexed, "You don't like it?"

"No, it's actually great. It's just that weapons are not a very common gift,” she chuckles. _After all, he is not a very common person. What did she expect?_

"Personally, I hate futile gifts and abhor bric-a-brac. I just thought that a useful present could be a fair compromise,” he clarifies.

"I do hope I will never find it _useful_ , though. Moreover, technically, I don't need it," she mutters, staring at the foreign object in her hands.

"Right, your bodyguard outside," he pronounces nodding to the window. On the other side of the street, a man wearing a black coat and a coordinated hat is leaning against a lamppost, his eyes fixed on the door with the number 221.

Her head whips up in utter surprise, "How do you know about him?"

"Oh please, that man out there has been keeping an eye on us for days, taking turns with a fellow guard who does the night shift. There is always someone monitoring the house and every suspicious movement around it. If you pay attention, you'd be able to see that both of them have a small bulge just below the armpit: they carry weapons, _clearly_ ,” he lists his observations in his usual condescending tone.

"Four people live in this building. How do you know he is there to protect me?" she asks.

"Easy deduction. I noticed that Mycroft tends to be very protective towards you, and after the _accident_ at the bank I was sure he would take stricter measures."

She nods then gives him a side glance, "Does it mean your gift is your version of 'stricter measures' towards me?"

He gulps nervously, "I'd rather say that it is less intrusive than a guard."

"Fair enough. I guess I'm going to keep the gun, then. Since this is more of a toy to me than a lethal weapon, may I try it?" she flashes him her puppy eyes as if she were a little girl who had just unwrapped a new doll.

"Be my guest," Sherlock gestures theatrically, pointing at the smiley face painted on the wall.

Giulia straightens up, takes the safety off, and relaxes her shoulders; she aims at the yellow drawing and shoots twice. Sherlock looks at her movements with rapt attention: the steadiness of her arm, the confident touch of her finger on the trigger, her eyes narrowed at her target. _This is not the first time she fires a weapon_ , his deduction comes unexpectedly.

He tries to shrug off that thought: _he still doesn't blindly trust her. Maybe it's because she never really told him what happened to her, what shattered her life. For him, the hardest part is to come to terms with the harsh reality: he cannot always know everything. She will keep her secrets for as long as she deems necessary._

"What do you think of my present, after all? Do you like it?" he inquires faking a disinterested tone.

She grins at him, "I sure do."

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other starting to feel uncomfortable. He doesn't know what to say. _What do people normally chat about when exchanging gifts? Whatever. He clearly isn't like them, he doesn't do the small talk._

He sinks into the couch; he still hasn't taken off his coat. Giulia puts the safety back on, delicately places the gun on the table, then walks to the window. She stares outside looking at the snow falling down. Nobody would have expected a White Christmas yet there it was.

"Look at the lights, at those snowy roads filled with joyful carols..." she murmurs feeling at peace.

"I hate it all," he snaps back.

She turns to him with an amused smile. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

** The next day **

Sherlock walks into the quiet living room; Giulia is curled up in front of the fire immersed in the reading of an adventure book. He gazes at her devouring every page with an insatiable curiosity and almost smiles at the scene: she is so absorbed that she doesn't hear him coming.

"Good morning," he greets, rousing her from her entrancement and causing her to jump in her seat, startled. She looks up at him, and the vermilion shadows of the flames crackling in the fireplace dance on her cheeks painting colourful patterns.

"Where is John?" he asks looking around the place.

"Off to his sister Harry. He said he'd spend Christmas day there trying to keep her off the ponce,” she sighs. _She was hoping for a slightly more ‘crowded’ Christmas day._

He nods. _Good: at least he won't have to explain to him what he is about to do next._

"Giulia, would you,” he clears his throat, slightly uncomfortable. _Is he nervous? Preposterous!_

He tries again in a more confident tone, “Would you be my girlfriend?"

She gapes at him unable to even blink. After a few seconds of bewilderment, she manages to stammer out, "Are you high or drunk, Sherlock?"

He frowns, "No. Why do you ask?"

She stares at him wide-eyed and starts babbling, "Because I wasn't expecting that. I mean you are... what you asked... I am flattered..."

He rolls his eyes and hastens to specify, "For a case."

"Oh…” she pauses. Now, she is puzzled. _And maybe, possibly, slightly, unconsciously disappointed?_ Her own brain teases her. “And what case do you need a girlfriend for?" she asks with sheer curiosity.

"A very important one, a bit dangerous, too. I'd understand if you didn't want to be involved," he affirms pacing the flat.

She narrows her eyes at him, "And what's in it for me if I accept?"

He looks out the window in anticipation of what would come later that day, "You would prevent a triple homicide."

"Are you serious?" she blurts out, gaping.

He shrugs, "Possibly."

She ponders the idea for a second as her sense of duty, justice and compassion prevail, "Well, it's three human lives we're talking about. I'm in,” she stands up, closing her book.

"Excellent," he claps his hands, "Those little lives will be very grateful. Now, go dress nicely: I'm taking you out,” he commands, almost pushing her out of the living room and towards the stairs.

She throws him a confused look but doesn't protest and goes to her flat.

* * *

** One hour and a half later **

Sherlock and Giulia are driving silently in a car. No one has spoken since they left Baker Street; it isn't an awkward or embarrassed silence, though: it's a tranquil stillness. The girl knows that her quiet driver is probably lost in his labyrinthic mind palace, even though she cannot help but wonder how he manages not to kill them both in a head-on crash. She is starting to relax in her seat when she notices that the landscape is quickly changing: they are getting out of the metropolitan area of London and are approaching the countryside.

"What is our backstory?" she asks after a while.

Sherlock takes his eyes off the road for an instant and furrows a brow, "What do you mean?"

"If we are a couple, we need a story. How did we meet, how did we end up together?" she wonders. _She doesn’t mind improvising. In fact, she is fairly good at it. But a two-people farce requires some coordination._

"We'll stick to the truth: you are my flatmate, that's our story. We won't need any more details: that would make the lie patently obvious. There will also be one person who already knows the truth, so we will keep it simple. You'd better keep quiet and let me handle the talk, alright?" he doesn’t even look in her direction.

She raises a brow at him: _this is getting more odd and intriguing each passing second._

After fifteen more minutes, Sherlock takes a turn in a cobbled driveway that leads up to a lovely manor house.

Giulia's eyes widen at that view, "I thought we were going to some restaurant or lavish place. I wasn’t expecting a private house," she murmurs perplexed.

"I said I would take you out, but never mentioned where," he shrugs, turning off the engine and hurrying to her side of the car to chivalrously open her door.

"Is it a crime scene?" she inquires, appreciating his unusually gallant manners.

He raises his gaze on the mansion with a displeased expression on his face. As the front door opens, he whispers, "Not yet, and let's hope it stays that way."

A cheerful woman appears on the threshold and welcomes the detective with open arms, "Sherlock! You finally made it."

He reluctantly plunges in her embrace, "Sorry, mother. Traffic jam."

Giulia listens to his answer in horror. _Mother? Wait, is she...? Oh, bloody manipulator!_

"You're lying. I checked the road on the Internet: it was clear. It simply took you forever to even decide to come to your poor parents, isn't it?" she scolds him lovingly. Then she turns to the girl standing next to the car, "And who is this gorgeous young lady?"

Giulia blushes and timidly smiles at her as Sherlock hastily introduces the two of them, "Mum, this is Giulia. Giulia, this is my mother." After a firm handshake and some small talk, they enter the house and walk into the living room where Sherlock's father and Mycroft are waiting for them.

"Sherlock, what's that about?" Giulia hisses at him keeping her voice down, barely audible.

"That's my family home and we are here to attend Christmas dinner, I thought it was evident," he whispers back.

She stares at him, piecing it all together, "So, in fact, the three people whose lives you claimed were at stake are..."

"My family," he exclaims completing her unheard question and gesturing at the people now gathered in the room.

Mycroft does a double-take when he sees Giulia, then a permanent smirk rests upon his face. _This is going to be unexpectedly amusing_ , he thinks.

* * *

** During dinner **

"So, Giulia," Mr Holmes addresses the girl who is trying to keep as quiet as possible following her fake boyfriend's instructions, "how's living with Sherlock?"

She instinctively smiles at the kind man. _Where does she start? From her kidnapping and attempted murder or should she just stick to the gory body parts in the fridge?_

"Quite the adventurous challenge. No day is like another," she politely replies, and Mycroft raises his brow. _That's the understatement of the century._

"He doesn't involve you in his cases, does he?" Mrs Holmes questions, her voice edged with concern.

"I guess I just get caught up in them, willingly or unwillingly," she shrugs shooting an ironic look at Sherlock.

Mycroft follows the exchange of glances and decides to have his fun. "Let's play a game of 'what-if', shall we?"

"No," his brother quickly replies, but the elder ignores him and proceeds to ask the girl, "Giulia, what if Sherlock was to commit a murder? Would you lie to cover up for him?" his icy glare ties her down to the chair.

"Mycroft!" his mother reprimands him but to no avail.

The girl doesn't allow herself to be intimidated and stares back, "Would _you_?"

Even though Mycroft is taken aback when confronted with that question – or rather, with his own (obvious) answer, his unintelligible facade doesn't break. He shoots back, "Family doesn't count. It is a different matter entirely. But I'm curious to know how _you_ would behave. Are you a good friend, or if you prefer _girlfriend_?" he corrects himself smiling smugly as his younger brother rolls up his eyes.

"You are assuming that good friends would do that," she plays with his words.

"I assume that close, affectionate people would go to great lengths to protect the people they care for,” he specifies, trying not to grimace whenever he talks about caring or sentiment.

She furrows a brow, "Would they? But that's counterintuitive. If I did lie for him, I'd be the worst friend... I mean, girlfriend ever," she objects, catching the detective's attention.

"You mean that you wouldn't cover up for me?" he inquires in a seemingly hurt tone.

"Of course not. I would never lie to protect you, no matter the crime. That's not friendship, that's not even protection. That's overindulgence and it's unacceptable. If I truly care for you, I'd want you to face the consequences of your actions, even if it'd break me to see you spend your days in a cell… even if neither of us would want it. But I would still do what is right. Friendship is not a synonym for unfairness and it should never be,” she asserts, taking a sip of wine.

The Holmes parents look impressed by her answer, and so do the brothers.

"It would look like you have quite the moral compass, Miss," Mr Holmes politely compliments her.

"I supposed my father passed it on me. I can't stand injustice. I guess this is the reason why I've been sticking with Sherlock for so long. He sees his cases as puzzles to be solved, enigmas to be deciphered, mysteries to be unveiled. For him, it's the thrill of the search, the excitement of the hunt that makes it all worthwhile. But for me, it's all about taking dangerous criminals off the streets, letting everyone get their due. So to answer your question, Mycroft, no, I wouldn't help Sherlock getting away with murder. It'd be inflexible with him. But that comes hardly as a surprise considering that he did the same with me when I was accused of murder. That's just fair play, isn't' it, _honey_?" she teases him as four pairs of eyes simultaneously fix on her.

"You were _what_?" Mrs Holmes gapes at her, and Mycroft sits back on his chair chuckling. _Amusing, indeed._

Sherlock elbows her under the table and whispers, "You really thought it'd be a good idea to bring up the topic of your arrest in front of my parents?"

* * *

At the end of the dinner, Mrs Holmes invites Giulia to the kitchen asking for her help. While she is cleaning up, she addresses the girl, "I was quite surprised that Sherlock brought you here, today."

 _So was I_ , the girl mentally comments.

"But now that I've met you, I can officially say that I'm glad he has someone like you in his life. Having you around the flat could only be a good influence on him. I'm happy that he has such good friends,” she smiles warmly at her.

Giulia is dumbfounded: _did she just say 'friends'?_

She rushes her answer, "Actually, I am his..."

Mrs Holmes stops her by placing gently a hand on her arm and giving her an eloquent smirk, "It's alright, dear. You don't have to keep pretending with me."

The girl looks into her eyes, and she immediately understands: _Oh, she is just like her sons; it probably makes sense. She can read through people. Which, in turn, unravels a whole series of questions; admitting that Sherlock knows his mother well enough, he was aware that they wouldn’t have managed to fool her. Then why did she bring her there? Did he do it out of pity, not wanting to leave her alone on Christmas day? Or did he deep down just want to spend the day with her?_

Before the girl could apologise for the farce, the kind lady goes on, "I've been looking at you throughout dinner and there is one thing I can't understand. Most people always want something from Sherlock, but you are not like them. You don't have a case for him to solve, you don't expect him to give you answers, you don't ask for anything. But we all need something out of life, and we usually think we can find it in the people around us. So, I'm asking you: what do you want from my son? Why are you here?" Her gaze travels all over her, but it isn't an inquisitive look; she is just dead curious.

Giulia shrugs and jokes around, "Because Sherlock tricked me. But I guess I let him fool me because I was just in the mood for favours: it's Christmas after all."

Mrs Holmes stares at the girl while her eyelids slowly roll down and her eyes become two slits. "Does this trick usually work with my sons?"

Giulia cocks a brow, "What trick?"

"When you say a half-truth and you expect others to take your word,” she points out.

The girl sighs and sits on a stool trying to justify herself, "He did bring me here under false pretences, but I guess that's not what you truly asked. Your question was different: you want to know why after months of cohabitation, I am still by Sherlock's side, don't you, Mrs Holmes?"

The woman nods slightly: _this girl is very perceptive._

“Here’s the full answer; the first time I met Sherlock when I walked into his flat, I saw something in him: a sparkle, a flame that burned inside him, that was consuming him. The fire of the devotion to his work, a passion for life and a disregard for death that I had never seen in anyone."

"People call it madness," Mrs Holmes comments flatly. Her voice masks the sorrow of a mother who had to witness her children being bullied for their exceptional minds.

"It is an easy mistake. This society detests people who are passionate about something. The moment you declare out loud that you adore something, that you are keen on an inner force that drives you, you are immediately branded a 'fanatic'. I'll never understand why the world hates enthusiasm to the extent of wishing that everyone would just have an aloof attitude toward life. I strongly believe that there is nothing purer than listening to someone talking frantically about what they love, watching them caught in the frenzy of their fondness with a glimmer in their eyes. You are right: people usually condemn it as insanity; it's what drives them away,” Giulia considers lowering her gaze, then she raises his eyes to meet the pale blue irises of Sherlock’s mother. “But seeing your son getting excited whenever he has a case, dashing around crime scenes, deducing every breathing being from head to toe just for fun... that is precisely what convinced me to stay."

Mrs Holmes gazes at her with an inscrutable face and Giulia stands still, overthinking, _Is she satisfied with this answer? Was her too blunt and outspoken? But that's what she wanted, wasn't it? Does she hate her now or think that she is a mad stalker of her precious boy?_

Then the woman slowly nods at her and a little smile lights up her lips.

* * *

Later that night, Sherlock and Giulia say goodbye to the quirky Holmes family and get into the car.

When the detective takes the motorway, he turns to Giulia, "Whatever story my mother might have told you in the kitchen about my childhood, I'll deny everything."

She simply giggles in response, then he adds, "But whatever you may have said, you made quite an impression. She told me that while we Holmes are the ones who observe, you are the girl who sees people for what they truly are. Whatever it means," he snorts and drives into the night.


	26. Angels and demons

** One week later **

3:30 a.m.

Giulia suddenly jolts awake with palpitation.

_She had another nightmare, another lucid dream that she knew was not real. It couldn't be: everything had already happened in real life but with a different ending. Initially, it was that woeful sense of déjà vu that forewarned her. She could sense that something was off with that dream the minute she saw a familiar gun pointed at her heart. She should have screamed just like she did when she had a nightmare on her first night in London: crying so loud that she eventually managed to wake her body up. But this time she didn't: she stayed quiet, unable to speak, incapable of protesting. She remained speechless staring into the eyes of her shooter: a pair of unmistakable green-blue eyes._

_Sherlock._

She awakens with his name on her lips, terrified by that nightmare. She tosses and turns in the bed striving to find an explanation for what she has just seen. She analyses her dream: _it wasn't the same scene at the bank: back then, Sherlock had aimed at her head; in this darker version, though, he went straight for her heart... Incoherent._

_Yet that wasn't the only inconsistent detail: why didn't she scream? Why did she stand by and let that happen, why did she let him do that to her? Would she ever give him the power to break her heart?_

Finally, she recalls one last, disturbing element: _his eyes were... dead, inexpressive. The fire she described to his mother a few days before wasn't there. It was nothing like him: in reality, his eyes host universes while the nightmare version of him only showed a blank look, a mask of utter detachment. What does it mean? What was killing her, Sherlock or his indifference?_

She stares at the ceiling of her bedroom, unable to go back to sleep. She takes a deep breath. _Inhale, exhale, it shouldn't be too difficult, right?_

She can feel her muscles relax, but her mind is restless, a thousand of questions incessantly swirling inside her brain. She groans, _Why can't everything stop just for one night?_

She closes her eyes desperately trying to get a few hours of sleep, but the moment her eyelids shut over her pupils, a sudden streak of images crash down on her mind threatening to drive her crazy. Her fantasy reproduces the swift movement of a hand holding a gun, the muzzle facing her just like she saw it happen inside the bank, and the deafening sound of a gunshot seems to resonate inside her skull. That detonation brings back another scenario in her brain: the explosion of the underground station during her first case with Sherlock and John. _It looks as if she was witnessing the building collapsing again among tongues of flame, helplessly staring once more at the smoking ruins._

But there's more. The lines of the station get blurred and distorted as they shapeshift enough to replicate a different building, something very familiar to her. She can feel the tears in her eyes when that lost place resurfaces from the deepest recesses of her mind. In her half sleep state, she instinctively raises an arm toward that vision as if she was trying to touch it, hold it for as long as possible. _Oh, how she misses it!_

All of a sudden, that building blows up in a massive explosion making her jump in her bed convulsively.

 _Haunting memories: that's all she got left_. _And yet the images in her head looked so vivid and real that she would swear that her nostrils could smell smoke_. She turns around in a puddle of sweat. _It felt as if there were flames everywhere, outside and inside her scorched soul. It looked like the very Hell, but she remembers that what truly happened was far worse: it was the end of her whole world._

Her eyes snap open, and she realises that she is hyperventilating. She yanks off the blanket and stands up weak on her legs, trying to calm down. _She needs something to drink: a glass of ice water to extinguish her fiery demons._

She stumbles across the small entrance of her flat and trudges up the stairs; while standing on the last steps, she overhears Sherlock talking in the living room. A little smile appears on her still quivering lips. _Good, this means that the boys are still up. At least she won't be alone with her painful thoughts._

She walks into the room stating, "John, you were wrong..." but she stops mid-sentence and looks around; the doctor is not there.

"Wait, where is he?" she asks Sherlock, giving him a confused look.

The detective lifts his head and inquires obliviously, "Who?"

"John."

He looks around the room as if he became aware of his surroundings for the first time. "Don't know. He probably went to bed some hours ago,” he shrugs.

She frowns, "I heard you speaking. I thought you were talking to him."

"I _was_ talking to him," he clarifies, then sighs at her vacant look, "Since I can't possibly interrupt the flow of my thoughts, I simply carry on my conversations with him even when he leaves."

"They are not conversations anymore; those are _monologues_ ," she corrects him, and he waves a hand in the air dismissively, "Whatever."

"Sorry then, I didn't mean to interrupt you,” she shoots him with an apologetic room, leaning against the doorjamb, her legs still wobbly.

"Never mind. I was probably saying something that would save the Western world, but in the end, why should it be important?" he overdramatises, making her roll her eyes.

She stares at him for a few seconds, feeling a wave of anger building in her for no apparent reason. _It's the after-effect of her nightmare: she blames him for shooting at her heart in her visions. It happens sometimes: we dream about someone we know, and when we meet them again in real life, we mix up dreams and reality, ending up with pent-up resentment for the actions that those innocent, unaware people only performed in our dreams. Dreadful how the mind works..._

Sherlock notices her hostile glare and arches a brow at her unusual behaviour, changing the subject, "While we are at it, what was John wrong about?"

He smiles internally. _He, who is always right, cannot resist the temptation of gloating when someone else gets something wrong._

The remnants of her dream vanish from her mind and she comes back to reality, "Remedies for insomnia. He recommended a few relaxation techniques and breathing exercises to facilitate sleep, but they don't work on me."

"And what does he know of breathing exercises?" Sherlock grimaces.

"He has read up on that subject since he came home from the war. We've been talking a lot recently, and he told me everything about his days in the army," she reveals stepping in the kitchen and pouring herself a glass of ice-cold water.

He studies her movements: _her grip on the glass is so tight that her knuckles are turning white. She is upset, but her darting eyes tell something more: she is not purely scared; he saw how she deals with terror. No, she is inconsolably sad. What is she doing here? It’s way too late for her to still be up, meaning that she went to bed and something woke her up. What was she dreaming about?_

"He never speaks about that period of his life," he points out without taking his eyes off her.

"He did with me. He doesn't see his therapist anymore, and he only writes about your cases on his blog; I suppose he just needed someone to talk to, and I was willing to listen,” she gives him a side glance.

"I perceive a subtle pop at me," he grunts.

She smiles, "Admit it: I am better than you at listening. But don't be jealous; they were just small stories about the battlefield, you wouldn't be interested. Anyhow, I thought you knew that sometimes he has troubles sleeping,” she teases him.

"I _do know_ that. The frequent bags under his eyes give it away,” he remarks. _He might not be the most empathetic person in the world, but he is still one of the most observant people around_. “However, the problem that afflicts you both has nothing to do with muscle relaxation and breathing control. You don't suffer from insomnia, you idiots. You're just haunted by nightmares – which is fairly natural, by the way. Post-traumatic stress disorder for both of you; he went to war and got shot on the field, whereas you were kidnapped and held hostage at gunpoint. It would be more than enough to prevent a normal person from sleeping for weeks," he stares intently at her. "Although, in your case, all these events must have triggered some bad memories of your past – a _bunch_ of them, apparently. Nightmares are the way you deal with it. Feel free to blame your subconscious for your sleepless nights. Taking a deep breath before going to bed won't fix it,” he snorts.

"Thank you very much, Dr Freud,” she rolls her eyes. “Do you have better advice, then? Your own remedy?"

He lifts his eyes on her, and she is surprised by the veil of melancholy that has fallen over his face. "You really think that I would be up at such ungodly hour if I had it? My demons keep me awake as much as yours do," he talks under his breath, looking away.

She steals a glance at his unreadable face, then murmurs, "I love this hour. You can never really say if it's too soon or too late."

He looks out the window into the black night: _is it too soon for her to let a stranger like him into her personal world? And is it too late for him to bring himself to care about another human being? In a way, he believes it was always too late for him. That's what he has always thought, all his life, ever since he was a child... Too late for caring, too late for him._

They remain silent for a few minutes, then Sherlock asks out of the blue, "What do you think of John?"

"He is a decent man; he's brave and..." she begins before being cut short by his annoyed tone. "I haven't asked for the praise of his character. Do you like him?" he abruptly inquires.

"Yes, I do. I am completely readable – as you _so politely_ pointed out at our first meeting,” she jabs him with the memory of his first deductions of her. “I bet you would’ve noticed if I hated him."

He rolls his eyes, "Of course you don't hate him. But I am not sure I can always read your emotions, and when you talk about him, it doesn't seem that you have feelings for him, so..."

"Wait, slow down,” she interrupts him. “Who said anything about feelings? I didn't say that I love him,” she chortles.

"But you _like_ him," he underlines confused, wrinkling his nose: _why aren't human emotions straightforward? Everything about humans should be logical and linear. Irrationality should be banished from the face of the earth._

"Yeees,” she confirms, lingering on the ‘e’. “As I like _you_ ," she adds with a smile trying to clarify the situation.

He is taken aback for a second, "Oh..."

"You don't wonder if I love you, though," she notices.

He averts his gaze and lowers his head as his voice sounds deeper, "Because I don't expect people to love me."

She lets his words sink in. _She never knew he might make that sort of considerations._

"They could… if you gave them a chance,” she argues, taking an instinctive step towards him.

His head spins up in her direction, "Despite who I am?"

 _"For_ who you are," she softly specifies.

Sherlock stares at her, surprisingly incapable of reading her face, her words. _Should he take it as a hint? Is she trying to convey some kind of message, is she simply being friendly, or what? What is she doing?_

He stammers, puzzled, "I'm sorry, you are saying that... I mean, do you?"

It's dark in the room but she is quite sure that he is blushing, and she sniggers. "You can stop panicking now. If I say that I appreciate your company, are you going to burst into flames?" she teases him.

"Using irony, skirting the question: the conversation has gone off the rails, hasn't it? Apologies, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable," he stutters.

She exhales and shakes her head, "How did we end up talking about this, anyway?"

"I was just trying to be _sociable_. It won't happen again," he sighs at his lack of capabilities with personal interactions and stands up to grab his violin. _It's time for some music. He doesn't even care that it is almost 4 am. Music is the only trustworthy means that he knows how to use to connect with others. Words are misleading. Every form of conversation should only occur through music. It could never go wrong, it would never create embarrassment or misunderstandings._

She stands up heading for the door, "I'll leave you to your performance."

"You can stay,” he hastens to say. If you want to," he adds, clearing his throat, "I might go on for a bit, but if you'd like to listen..."

"I'd love to," her eyes glimmer and she flops down on the couch.

Sherlock starts to play a lovely, delicate tune while Giulia listens to his music, her legs stretched on the sofa, her head leaned on a pillow, eyes closed. She relaxes her shoulders, and her lips bend in a hinted smile: _she has the impression that his notes are caressing her softly._

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye and ironically comments, "I didn't know I could be so boring as to make you sleep."

She cracks her eyes open and grins peacefully, "You're not. It was bliss. Who is the composer?"

"Me."

She nods impressed and closes her eyes again.

He steals a glance at her: _she doesn't look like the same girl who came to Baker Street some months before, desperately looking for accommodation. He was able to deduce her in under ten seconds, at the time, but he wonders if he can still do that. She seems different, now; **he** is different with her now. Only another woman was as mysterious as her: The Woman_. Almost automatically his fingers start to play Irene's theme.

When the last note slides along the chords of the violin and fades away, Sherlock looks down at Giulia; her eyes are still closed, her chest rises and falls rhythmically. A sudden thought dawns on him, _We should always see the others sleeping. Everyone looks vulnerable._

He carefully takes the girl up off the couch and brings her downstairs bride-style. She wakes up halfway and rubs her eyes while mumbling, "What are you doing?"

"Taking you to your bed, _obviously_. You practically passed out on the sofa,” he whispers in a falsely reproachful tone. _The truth is he feels a weird sense of delight knowing that he helped her fall asleep after the nightmares that had terrified her earlier._

"Just for one second," she rebuts like a stubborn toddler.

He opens the door of her apartment, walks to her bedroom and gently places her on the mattress. When he is about to leave the room, he hears her whisper, "Sherlock?"

He turns around, "Yes?"

"You should go to sleep, too. Don't worry about your demons; after your last piece, I bet they fell asleep as well. It was so tender and soft... You had never played anything like the last melody,” she mutters in her sleepy slur.

"I thought you were sleeping," he objects, surprised.

"I told you: I fell asleep for just one second. I listened to you almost the whole time. That music... was it for a woman?" she deduces.

He nods without a word.

She doesn’t know whether to smile or frown at that revelation, and she is too drowsy to decide, so she simply asks, "Has she ever heard it?"

"No."

She closes her eyes feeling that she is about to fall asleep, "Pity, it's wonderful. In that ethereal music, I could feel the real you. Thank you for this dance with the angels. Goodnight, Sherlock."


	27. Beyond the mirror

** Two weeks later **

A man bangs repeatedly on the front door of 221 Baker Street.

"I’m coming. For the love of God, just hold your horses!" Mrs Hudson shouts dashing down the stairs to answer the door. She unlocks it and begins to greet the man, "Good morning..." but the moment she lowers the handle, he abruptly pushes her aside and storms up the stairs.

"Where are your manners?" the poor lady complains shaking her head.

In the meantime, the man has reached the door of the flat marked 'B', and he bursts it open, rushing inside and yelling, "Sherlock? I know you dislike me. That's a mutual sentiment, by the way. But I do need to talk to you..." he stops mid-sentence when he comes face to face with a girl coming out of the kitchen.

"Who are you?" he inquires immediately, shocked.

She smirks, "A burglar."

He raises his eyebrows, "Really?"

"Sure, and if I were a burglar, I would definitely tell that to a police officer," she ironically grimaces at him while pointing at the tag with the words _'New Scotland Yard'_ hanging around his neck.

"Technically, I'm a forensic officer," he specifies, peeved.

"And I'm not a burglar. I live here: I'm Sherlock's and John's flatmate. My name is Giulia. Pleased to meet you, Mr ...?" she asks, extending her hand amiably, and he quickly shakes it while taking a look around the living room, "Philip Anderson. Where is Sherlock Holmes?"

"He's been out for hours now. But judging from the anxiety in your voice and your opening sentence, it seemed rather pressing. Do you want to wait for him here? I could make you some tea," she kindly suggests.

He seems to ponder the idea for a second then replies curtly, "No, thanks. When he comes back, just tell him to meet me at Scotland Yard, okay?" and he nervously heads for the door.

Her words reach him when he is crossing the threshold. "Is he in trouble?"

Anderson sighs and turns around, "No, but _I_ will if he doesn't show up." He is about to go down the stairs, but Giulia stops him in his tracks again.

"Mr Anderson?" she shoots him a little smile, "About what you said earlier, don't let it upset you: you're not the only one. Sherlock dislikes most of the human race."

He frowns annoyed, "Did he run a test to select you as his flatmate?"

She chuckles, "Sort of. Have a good day."

He dismissively waves a hand in the air and leaves.

Upon hearing the thump of the front door closing, Sherlock steps out of his bedroom. "What if he had accepted?"

She turns towards him with an interrogative look, "What?"

"Your tea offer," he spits out almost nauseated.

She shakes her head, "I was just pretending to be polite, but I knew he would never stay. He was desperate and in a hurry; people in such a critical condition hate to sit on their hands. They feel so helpless."

He stares at her with narrowed eyes, "You are improving quickly."

She beams at him, "Thanks."

"And you can lie dangerously well," he squints his eyes even more and her smile trails off on her lips. "I'm not certain this is a compliment,” she remarks, arching a brow at his intrigued expression.

He shrugs, "It depends on the situation; this time it has come in handy. Thanks for dismissing him on my behalf."

She sighs. She has been instructed to always buy time whenever a police officer or an overexcited client knocks at their door – with the only exception of Lestrade, who is also the only one who wouldn’t believe the lie that Sherlock Holmes isn’t up for business at any given moment.

"What did he want?" she inquires surprised by his determination to turn down a distress call coming from the police.

"To annoy me, of course," he replies, lolling on his armchair.

"Sherlock, he needs your help. He looked very distressed; it might be important,” she tries to talk some sense into him.

"It's _Anderson;_ nothing concerning him is of any importance,” he grunts.

"You could drop by Scotland Yard, later, anyway," she encourages like a mother with a lazy son. "What's the point in lying for you if I can't even get rid of you for half an hour?" she whines sarcastically.

Sherlock stands up without a word and looks out the window, lost in thought. After a while, he breaks the silence, "You were wrong."

Giulia tilts her head, "About what?"

"Me. I don't dislike most of the humankind; sometimes I simply don't seem to understand it. As if I wasn't part of it,” he murmurs, his voice deep, distant.

He reflects on it for an instant. _He is different from anyone else, always has been. 'Different': that's a peculiar word. It comes from the Latin term 'differre', literally meaning 'carrying away'. Maybe that's why he feels different: his humanity was taken away from him long ago, in a time he cannot remember._

"Fine. And what species do you think you belong to, then? What would you rather be if not a man?" she asks fascinated.

"A shark," he replies in a gloomy tone. "Sharks can never stop. Either they constantly move or they die." He walks to the coat rack and wears his coat: _move or die._

"Where are you going?" she flashes him a bright smile.

He rolls up his eyes, tying his scarf around his neck, "Scotland Yard. I'm not doing that for Anderson, by the way," he hastens to clarify. "I'm just bored, and I want to check if Lestrade has a new case for me."

"If he had one, he would have called you," she points out slyly, teasing him.

"Stop smiling or the next case the police will have to solve will be the mysterious disappearance of my flatmate," he smirks. He gives her one last look before running down the stairs. _As if the mystery surrounding her story wasn't already complex enough._

* * *

** New Scotland Yard **

As soon as Sherlock steps through the glass doors of New Scotland Yard, Sergeant Donovan walks up to him inquiring, "Why are you here, Freak?"

He wrinkles his nose at that name and fakes a smile, "Oh, hello Sally! I am here because... hold on a second, this is none of your business, so back off.”

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't call security now," she confronts him putting her hands on her hips.

"Because I have a formal invitation. I need to see a person who explicitly asked for my assistance,” he simpers. _When will the police understand that he would never walk into Scotland Yard of his own free will or without a fairly good reason? He despises most of them, after all._

"I don't remember doing such a thing, not this week, at least," Greg intervenes, walking to the bickering couple.

"Indeed," Sherlock remarks nonchalantly.

"Who are you looking for, then?" the D.I. asks like a teacher in front of a stubborn student.

The detective shoots him a bored look before replying, "Anderson."

"Anderson? Listen, Sherlock, you cannot just come in here and go after him,” Lestrade looks on the verge of losing his patience.

The detective sneers, " _After_ him? You got that wrong, inspector – not a surprise, might I add. As much as I would like to punch him every time he simply breathes in, I am not here to start a fight."

"What a relief,” Anderson's nasal voice echoes in the hall as he emerges from one of the corridors. “By the way, I didn't count on you to show up," he comments, approaching the small group.

"So this is true? Did you really ask for _his_ help?" Sally questions bewildered.

He simply nods as Lestrade is shocked by that revelation, "Why?"

"I was on forensics on a case of murder..." he starts before being unceremoniously interrupted by Sherlock, "Cut to chase, Anderson. Do you need me to track down the killer?"

The officer frowns, "No. We already have him in custody."

"But?" the detective has spotted a crack in his tone.

"But he is not talking. He won't confess to the murder," he admits.

"It's not your job to get him to talk, Anderson," Greg intervenes annoyed.

"And I'm sure any police officer could do that in the interrogation room," Donovan adds haughtily, understanding for the first time the role that Mr Holmes is supposed to play.

"Not with this boy," Anderson contradicts her.

"Why? What's so special about him?" Sherlock's interest in the case begins to rise.

Anderson gives him an ironic smile, "He is just like _you_."

* * *

Five minutes later, the group of people is standing behind the one-way glass through which they can look into the adjacent interrogation room where a boy is sitting behind a metal table.

"Let me get this straight; you've just arrested this boy on charges of murder based on circumstantial evidence?" Sherlock bursts out, disconcerted.

"It's not circumstantial. The police found him bent over the victim's body: Elisa Therton," Anderson begins justifying, but Sherlock cuts him short, "According to what you've reported, Elisa was his mother _:_ of course, he was on her body. Empathy might not be my strong point, but I think I can figure out how human emotions work, to a certain extent. What else would you expect him to do, being completely indifferent to her corpse?"

"Honestly, yes, but I'll explain why later,” Anderson gives him a condescending look that makes Sherlock pale with pent-up anger. “Anyway, we found the murder weapon in the house. The bullet inside the victim's chest matches the calibre of the gun. We don't even have to run ballistics on it; it's crystal clear."

"The killer might have used it to shoot the woman and left it behind not to arise suspicion," Holmes hypothesises, remaining unfazed by those apparently unfounded allegations,

"The gun is a property of the family, legally registered; it belonged to the father,” Anderson disputes.

The detective's head jerks up, " _Belonged_?"

"The boy's father (and husband of the victim) died six years ago,” the forensic officer specifies.

Sherlock shakes his head, irritated, "So you took a wild guess and supposed that this teenage boy had the same flair for firearms as his old man and consequently used his father's gun to kill his mother? Anderson, every time you open your mouth, you inadvertently challenge Darwin's theory of evolution and the survival of the fittest."

Anderson flares his nostrils, livid, "Look, Holmes, I didn't come to you to collect feedback on my work. It's not a mere conjecture: the boy had gunpowder traces on him: we’ve run tests on his hands and clothes. Moreover, we found this towel soaked with blood hidden inside his wardrobe." He hands to him a plastic bag containing a stained-red towel.

The detective gives it a closer look, then asks, "Did you test it to verify that it is the victim's blood?"

The policeman glowers at him, "The lab is doing it as we speak. Whose else could it be?"

Sherlock sighs heavily and looks beyond the glass, staring at the boy; _he must admit that the evidence is all against him_. "Does he have an alibi?" he inquires after a few seconds.

"He said he was hunting in the woods," Anderson explains distrustfully.

Sherlock turns sharply towards him, confusion painted all over his face, "Woods? Hold on a second, where did this murder happen?"

Anderson barely whispers his answer, "In a small town in the countryside, not far from London."

"And why would you be on forensics on a case outside the city?" Sherlock widens his eyes at him, baffled.

Philip keeps his eyes down and murmurs, "Because that's where I was born. I grew up in that town, and when I heard about the tragedy, I rushed there to see what happened. My family knew both Elisa and her deceased husband. I just want to find out the truth."

Sherlock gives him a sarcastic look, "Does it include making it up?"

"Enough," Lestrade intervenes in a weary tone. "Sherlock, I'm sure that if Anderson came to you for consultation, he had a good reason to."

The detective scoffs, "His only reason is despair. He knows that he doesn't have a solid manslaughter case against that boy, and according to the law, you can only hold a murder suspect in custody up to 96 hours, then you'll have to release him."

Lestrade gives him a sarcastic look, "Thank you for reminding us. Now, will you help or not?"

"I will,” he nods vigorously. _He would never pass on the opportunity to throw it back in Anderson’s face for the rest of his days_. “But before I question him, I need to know: what did you mean when you said he is just like me?" he addresses the forensic officer who smirks and replies, "He is a sociopath."

Sherlock seems taken aback for a moment, then he raises a brow and comments ironically, "Let me guess; this is also his motive, isn't it? He is a sociopath, so he _must_ have killed his mother, right? Is that why you wanted my help? You need me to make him talk because you think I am some sort of _kindred spirit_ ," he spits out through gritted teeth.

"Nobody got a single word out of him, except for his convenient alibi," Philip shrugs.

"Fine, but I want to talk to him alone,” he bargains.

"Sherlock, do I have to remind you that you're not a police officer?" Lestrade scowls at him.

"And do I have to remind you, Detective Inspector, that I am your best chance to solve a case that you had no jurisdiction over and that your forensics officer claimed for himself?" he remarks conceitedly.

Greg sighs then concedes, "You have five minutes."

* * *

Sherlock steps into the interrogation room and sits at the table across from the boy. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he announces, then looks at the personal report Anderson gave him and reads the boy's name out loud, "Isaac, care to share anything with me?"

The teenager doesn't raise his gaze on his interlocutor and bluntly replies, "I'm against new people."

A corner of Sherlock's mouth bends in a smirk and he nods, "I can relate. Let's make it quick, then. I heard you don't talk to cops.”

"There's nothing relevant I have to tell them,” the boy answers in a low voice.

"Good, so you're talking to me now," he grins at the one-way mirror, knowing that behind the glass, everyone is watching them.

"You said it: I don't talk to _cops,_ " Isaac snaps back.

Sherlock tilts his head, intrigued, "How did you know I wasn't one of them?"

He casts a rapid glance at him before averting his gaze, "From the way you behave. Every officer that entered this room before you wanted something from me.”

 _Oh, this is getting rather interesting_ , Sherlock thinks. "And what makes you think I don't?" he inquires.

"Oh, I'm sure you do. The point is you are the first person who is not asking anything,” the boy shrugs.

"I can gather information differently," Holmes explains, relaxing his back against the seatback.

"And I guess that's why you've been observing me since the moment you stepped in. What do you have so far?" the boy finally looks into his eyes. He doesn't look terrified; there's no fear on his features, just melancholic fatigue.

Sherlock stares at him, "A clever boy and a rather interesting conversation."

"Why are you here?" Isaac asks, curious about that bizarre newcomer.

"Because I'm bored,” Sherlock replies honestly. “Why are _you_ here?"

"Because my mum was murdered and your friends think I did it,” the boy talks back, his tone is flat, apathetic. It doesn’t even look like he is talking about himself and his arrest.

' _Friends' is a strong word_ , the detective comments mentally before expressing out loud, "And they will most definitely send you to jail for a very long time unless you are proven innocent."

"Is that what you are trying to do?" Isaac queries, still uninterested in his fate.

"As much as I would like to prove them wrong, I'm just interested in solving a case, that's it. So, where were you between 9 and 10, this morning?" the detective kicks off with the standard questions.

"I already told them: I was hunting,” the bored reply is muttered with indifference.

"Yeah, in the woods. A nice little place not quite crowded with witnesses. Nobody can corroborate your story," Sherlock points out. Isaac remains silent.

"Is this towel yours?" he tries again placing the plastic bag on the table. The boy steals a glance at it and suppresses a shiver. "Yes."

Holmes has caught his reaction and doesn’t give up on the topic. "Why is it dripping blood?"

Isaac doesn't reply; silence is his shield. Sherlock sighs at his obstinate mutism. "Isaac, if this is related to your mother's death..."

"It's not," he interrupts the detective. "It is not her blood. You can test it if you want."

"We are. But you could help me save precious time,” Sherlock’s voice resonates sharper than he intended.

Isaac makes eye contact with him only for an instant, then looks away without a word.

The detective shakes his head, disappointed, "Why the hard way?"

The boy glances at him once more, "Who says this is the hard way?"

Holmes stares back and clenches a fist under the table; _this boy is more challenging than he thought, but he has no intention to give up._ He tries to regain control of the situation and says casually, "Let's change the subject, tell me about your father."

Isaac frowns in surprise, "What do you want to know?"

"I'll be honest: I'm completely in the dark about him. I've only been told that he died six years ago, so feel free to tell me whatever you want," he sits back on his chair and nonchalantly puts his feet on the metal table, waiting for a story.

"He was a decent man, or so I believe. I was just nine when he died," he replies evasively crossing his arms.

"Were you two close?" Sherlock's voice resonates slightly softer.

The boy shrugs, staring upon vacancy, "I guess so. He used to tell me bedtime stories, mostly pirates' adventures. I've always had troubles sleeping."

Sherlock holds back a smile at that mention and for half a second his mind flies back in time, lost among his childhood memories full of cocked hats and imaginary vessels. _Pirates stories were his favourites, too._

"Time's up, Sherlock," Lestrade's voice crackles from the speakers, bringing him back to reality and causing him to sit back straight. The detective turns to the mirror and firmly states, "Just two more minutes." He suddenly whips around without giving Greg the time to protest, and he hunches over the table looking intently at the teenager, "Isaac, what happened to your father? How did he die?"

The boy sighs. A blank look in his eyes signals that he is not even in the room anymore; his mind is distant, six years back in the past, miles away from Scotland Yard. He starts recounting, "One night he went out in the woods and never came back. It wasn't that unusual; sometimes he went for a solitary walk in the forest, alone at night: it was his happy place. But that time he completely disappeared. The police discovered a pool of his blood at the foot of a tree and signs of struggle all around the area, but nothing more: no traces on the ground, no indication of what had happened. His body was never found."

"This sounds like something you were told, a police report. I want to hear _your side_ of the story: what do you remember of that night? You said you've always had troubles sleeping: were you awake when he got out of the house?" Sherlock presses him.

"I - I don't know," he mumbles, biting his lips scared, haunted by ghosts.

"Focus, focus!" Sherlock insists slamming a hand on the metal table and making him jump in his seat.

"Sherlock, enough," Lestrade warns from the speakers.

"Isaac, if you remember something, anything at all, you have to tell me," the detective adds in a seemingly pleading tone. He is starting to get truly involved in the case.

The boy squints his eyes and buries his head in his hands, "I had a dream that night. I dreamed that I was looking out the window and I saw a man coming out of the forest. He was wearing a grey coverall."

Sherlock straightens up, raising a brow at that answer, "Was it your father?"

"I didn't see his face in my dream. That's it. I don't even know what it means," he lifts his watery eyes on him, and Sherlock is invaded by a weird sensation. _Is it pity? Compassion?_

He adjusts his coat collar up, "It was probably a figment of your imagination, but it was worth a try." He turns to speak in the direction of the one-way mirror, "I'm done here. Now I need to go to the crime scene, but I have to stop by my apartment, first."

* * *

** 221B Baker Street **

When Sherlock enters the flat, Giulia is studying in the living room. She lifts her head from the books and inquires, "Was it a good idea, going to Scotland Yard?"

"A terrible idea, but a rather intriguing case. I'm going to the crime scene, would you be interested?" he asks almost without thought. _Considering everything that happened to her ever since she started tagging along with the eccentric Baker Street duo, maybe that isn't the brightest proposal. Still, for some unknown reason, he wouldn't mind her company._

"I would, but unfortunately, I can't. I got exams the day after tomorrow and I have 200 pages to..."

Sherlock raises a hand in the air to stop her rambling, "A simple 'no' would have sufficed. John? Are you coming?"

The doctor comes out of the kitchen, sipping tea. "Where?"

"Countryside. Crime scene," he replies telegraphically.

"I had no better plans, anyway. It's a yes for me," the doctor puts down his mug and takes his jacket from the coat rack.

Giulia waves at them, "See you later. Happy hunting."


	28. Small town mysteries

** A small village in the countryside - active crime scene **

_ One hour and a half later _

"So, Anderson, what can you tell us about this idyllic village?" Sherlock promptly starts off, the minute he and John arrive in front of the victim's house.

"That it is not _idyllic_ at all, for starters," the forensic scientist replies, escorting the two of them into the cottage located at one end of the small town, on the edge of the forest. "I'm not saying it has a long history of violence, but in such a little town, even the smallest crime becomes a topic of conversation for years on end. And around here, two huge mysteries, albeit old, will never stop being a talking point, especially given the fact that neither of them was ever solved."

"And I suppose the death of Isaac's father is one of them," the detective intervenes, crouching down over the corpse of a corpulent woman lying still on the wooden floor of the living room. He scrutinises every inch of her body and notices traces of soil under her nails _. Was she gardening when her killer lured her into the house and shot her?_ he quickly ponders.

"Oh yes, Elisa's husband was a good man. His mysterious disappearance shocked everyone," Anderson interrupts his flow of thoughts.

"If I’m not mistaken, there wasn't much to tell since the body was never found and he had no known enemies," the detective recalls the scarce information the police gave him regarding that ancient crime; it is also consistent with what Isaac told him during the interrogation.

In the meantime, he attentively analyses the creases on the carpet where the body is lying. _Signs of struggle: it means she wasn't held at gunpoint and executed in cold blood,_ Sherlock's mind feverishly elaborates. _This suggests that the murderer first intention wasn't necessary to kill her, otherwise, Elisa wouldn't even have had the opportunity to fight, causing the rug to wrinkle like that. What happened, then?_

"Is anything missing? Jewels, valuables, cash?" he addresses Anderson who shakes his head and quickly replies, "Nothing. This wasn't a burglary gone wrong. This is why the police think Isaac did it; the motive isn't money-related. Maybe he got into a heated argument with his mother, who knows?" he shrugs with a grimace of contempt.

 ** _He_** _does know, if only you let him tell his version of the events_ , the detective mentally retorts. Then he turns his attention to the body again, especially her forearms and hands. _Assuming (with a monumental leap of faith) that Anderson is, in fact, right, and Elisa and her attacker did argue and she tried to defend herself, why doesn't she have any scratches or contusions on her forearms? Whoever puts up a fight would try to hit the attacker with fists, hooks, punches. However, her knuckles aren't bruised or injured, so she didn't use her bare hands. Would it be possible that she was holding something which she tried to use to hit the killer?_ he asks himself.

"Did you move anything, any object on or around the body?" he tartly addresses the officer.

Anderson grimaces at the subtle insinuation of poor forensics procedure, "Of course not."

John tries to shift the focus back to the story they were being told, "You were saying that the disappearance of Mr Therton, the victim's husband, remained a mystery?"

"Precisely, and it also marked the beginning of the end of the Therton family. Adam, that was his name, was pretty much the only one – except for his wife, who cared about Isaac and truly loved him. When he died and Elisa became a heartbroken, grieving widow, the boy officially became a pariah in the town,” Anderson recounts.

"Why? It's not like he's dangerous or lunatic, he has just problems forging social bonds," Sherlock underlines in a deep tone while heading to Isaac's room.

"Yeah, because he is a sociopath. I understand why you take this case to heart, Holmes..."

"I don't," he cuts him short and bursts into the boy's poorly equipped room.

"The truth is this boy has always been bizarre," Anderson adds without hiding his mistrust.

"He likes popular movies and is a football fan. Seems pretty normal to me," John comments, nodding at the walls where a few posters of the 'Pirates of the Caribbean' saga and some drawings of footballers are hanging. Anderson glances at the drawings and counters, "For someone who is into football, it's quite weird to get the wrong colours of his favourite team crest," he mocks, tapping a finger on a representation of the Arsenal emblem coloured in green and lilac.

Sherlock follows their banter from across the room and teases Anderson, "Let me guess: it’s his lack of social skills that made him _different_ , isn't it?" he peeks into the boy's bare bathroom where a few objects are scattered on the sink: just the toothpaste and toothbrush, a razor blade and a deodorant.

"Not only that; he also had the strange tendency to wander into the woods for long hours, hunting – he said, searching..." Anderson remarks, wrinkling his nose at those disturbing habits. 

"For what?" John intervenes.

"His father's remains, obviously; perhaps some clues about what happened. He wanted the truth and there's nothing strange about it," Holmes answers before Anderson could, then he proceeds back to the main entrance. He has already seen it all: Isaac’s personal space is so neat and tidy that he could register every single detail with just one glance.

"Let's be honest; he was a lone wolf roaming the woods with a shotgun on his shoulders and a creepy look in his eyes... It's no wonder people started to see him as a threat," the forensic officer shrugs, prisoner of his biased mind.

"And this small town was more scared of him than of his father's killer on the loose,” the detective scoffs. “Anyway, I am curious about the second mystery that shook this village. Who was killed after Adam?" he inquires.

"Nobody was. It was a simple, plain robbery; no casualties, just a bunch of stolen jewels worthing tens of thousand pounds. And it happened _before_ Adam's death, approximately ten years ago,” Anderson specifies.

"Who would own that kind of jewels here? For what I have seen, there are no rich, luxurious mansions in this town," John points out, furrowing his brow.

"Those jewels did not belong to any of our citizens, they were part of an exhibition which took place in the old church," Anderson explains patiently.

"And the mystery about the robbery is..." John presses him.

"That one of the thieves vanished together with the loot,” he sighs, making it evident that he must have talked about the event with the other villagers at least a thousand times. Events like that are a rarity.

" _One_ of the thieves?" the doctor frowns.

"There were two of them. Fred Admiral, a man born and raised here, and his unknown accomplice. As far as the investigation could conclude, Fred Admiral must have accurately planned and carried out the robbery together with another person,” Anderson does nothing to mask his bored expression.

"But something went wrong, I suppose," Sherlock encourages him to continue his story and steps into the backyard from the rear door.

"When they were sneaking out of the church with their plunder through the medieval passageways that run under the nave, Fred slipped on the mossy floor and broke a leg. At that time, someone noticed the jewels had disappeared and called the police. The second thief tried to help him but soon realised he would have been caught together with his accomplice. So the second thief left Fred behind, grabbed all the loot and disappeared,” the policeman mimics with his hands the vanishing act of a magician.

"Why do you still consider it a mystery, then?" Sherlock asks marching towards a fenced part of the garden.

"Because Mr Admiral never talked. No matter what deal the prosecution offered him, he never gave away the name of his partner, where he could be hiding or where the jewels ended up,” Anderson comments, following them in the garden.

"Honour among thieves," John states with a smirk.

"His honourable manners cost him a five-year sentence. And even though he got out early for good behaviour, I'm pretty positive that he never saw a cent of the fortune he had collaborated to steal," Anderson points out.

"How can you say that?" the doctor inquires, keeping an eye on his friend who knelt near a bunch of plants with purple flowers. _Is he keen on botany, now?_ he thinks with a trace of sarcasm towards his seemingly boundless knowledge.

He shoots him a sadistic grin. "The man is broke. He has always worked for his wife's plumbers company, and the couple has recently had a baby, but they still live squashed into a tiny house. He certainly doesn't look like a man who tried to steal half a million pounds worth of jewellery. His accomplice must have taken advantage of Fred's bad-luck accident and eloped leaving him with nothing."

"And after all these years nobody has the slightest clue of who the second thief might be? No doubt you became such a mediocre officer given your origins," Sherlock disdainfully mocks him, straightening up and brushing off some soil from his trousers.

"Holmes, I'd like to remind you that we're not here to dig up old crimes but to solve a new one and we're on borrowed time," he overlooks the insult.

"Right. Let's start with hard facts: any witnesses of this murder?" John asks, taking out his notepad.

The forensic scientist shakes his head, "Nobody saw or heard anything. As you can see, this house is quite isolated; their only neighbours are wild beasts".

"Speaking of which, is this the reason why that portion of the garden is the only one protected by a fence, to keep away wild animals?" Sherlock nods at the open gate on the paling protecting the plants that he was studying just a few moments before.

Anderson squints his eyes to discern some letters engraved in a sequence of flat rocks aligned at the centre of that fenced field and reads it out loud, " _Plants Experiments._.. Oh, that was Adam's little lab. He was very fond of his flowers. After his disappearance, I imagine that Elisa took over the gardening routine".

"As a matter of fact, she did,” Sherlock reflects, remembering the traces on the cadaver. “Where are her grass shears?" he murmurs barely audible.

"What are you talking about, freak?"

The detective glowers at him, "Do me a favour and try to open your eyes, every now and then. If you look closely at the plants in the 'lab', you'll clearly distinguish fresh trims along the stems and pruning residues on the ground. If we also add the fact that the corpse exhibits soil traces under her nails, we can easily assume that she had been gardening recently. Considering that this very part of the garden was her beloved husband's haven, we can presume that she would _always_ clean after herself and dispose of all those cut leaves. She wouldn't leave such a mess,” he points at the leaves and residues scattered around the fence.

John catches up with his line of reasoning, "She must have been gardening when she was suddenly interrupted. Someone urged her into the house and killed her."

"Indeed, doctor. So back at my question: where are her grass shears?" Sherlock grumbles impatiently.

Anderson raises his hands in surrender, "I have no idea. They were nowhere in the garden or inside the house. I told you: we didn't move anything."

"Something's not right," the consulting detective mumbles, and a police officer who has just approached them, echoes him, "Something is definitely wrong, sir: there's another victim."

* * *

The trio follows the police officer who has just announced the presence of a second body; they march toward the far end of the garden where they spot a dog lying in the grass.

"I don't understand. Did the murderer kill the family dog, too?" John wonders.

"Just because a dog lies dead on a crime scene, that does not necessarily make it the second victim of the same assassin," Sherlock clarifies, examining the animal.

"Why would someone kill a dog, anyway?" Anderson intervenes.

"Perhaps, the killer was afraid the dog could start barking thus warning passers-by?" the doctor speculates.

"But it makes no logical sense. Passers-by _here_? We said it before: this house is isolated. Given the breed and the small size of this dog, we can also rule out the possibility that the shooter felt threatened by it and acted in self-defence. Not to mention that, for what we can observe, this dog doesn't show any external wounds. What could the killer have possibly done, strangle it?" the detective asks rhetorically, but right when he finishes the sentence, something clicks in his mind and he whispers, "Actually..."

He squats down over the dog's muzzle and delicately lifts the flew to reveal blue discolouration on its gums. "A clear sign of cyanosis: this dog had respiratory failure, which is also consistent with the scratches on the bare ground around its paws, signalling it was suffering from convulsions," he states in a gloomy tone.

John looks at him intrigued: _is it possible that the very man who never bats an eyelid in front of a human corpse is now affected by the death of a dog?_

"So, it wasn't killed by Elisa's murderer?" Anderson concludes tentatively.

"We don't know precisely what caused its asphyxiation, but I don't think the killer had anything to do with it. Still, the question remains: why is this dog dead?" Sherlock asks mostly to himself.

Anderson leads them to the front gate of the house, hissing, "Why don't you ask Isaac? Maybe he'll tell you how and why he killed the dog after shooting his mother."

"Don't your neurons get claustrophobic in that tiny brain of yours, Anderson?" the detective talks back, getting out of the driveway and stepping onto the main road where a knot of curious people is standing behind police tape.

While they are making their way through the crowd, a woman grabs the doctor by his shoulders, a dismayed look on her face. John instinctively steps back, but she tightens her grip on him and stammers, "Is-is that really _you_?"

She turns pale; her bloodshot eyes stare at John as if she had just seen a ghost. The doctor, visibly confused and uncomfortable, murmurs warily, "Excuse me, do I know you?"

She is now shaking uncontrollably while tears stream down her face, "Dad, is that you?"

Sherlock frowns at the scene as the woman continues, "Are you back because I'm letting you down? Oh, dad, I'm so sorry, I know that your company was the hard work of your life, nay, it was your entire life. And I've been trying to save it, I swear. But it's so damn difficult. Heaven knows I'd do anything to prevent it from going bankrupt, anything! Are you angry, dad?" she cries, caressing John's cheek who yanks his face away from her touch, ill-at-ease.

"I haven't the faintest idea who she is," he throws a bewildered look at his flatmate. "This woman is clearly delirious. She is hallucinating, and I guess she's seeing her father, somehow. Excuse me, can you hear me? Are you feeling alright?" he tries to drag her back into reality.

She blinks repeatedly, waking up from her trance and squints at John, "Who are you?"

"My name's John Watson, and I'm afraid that your father was never here. You had hallucinations," he explains calmly and professionally.

She takes a few steps back with a staggering gait and loses her balance for a second. Sherlock quickly grabs her arm, preventing her from hitting the ground. She is still in shock when she mumbles, "It felt so real..."

"Is she drunk?" John asks Sherlock who wrinkles his nose and replies, "I don't smell alcohol. It's more likely drugs. Look at her pupils: dilated. Her speech: slurred. And she is experiencing confusion and hallucinations."

"Pardon me, what are you talking about? I'm not drunk, let alone high. I - I am just shocked," she protests.

"Why shocked? And why did you believe to see your father in my friend here?" the detective inquires in a harsh tone.

"Yes, I did see my father, he was right in front of me..." she immediately remembers motioning her fingers in the air as if she was retracing a dream she had just woken up from. "But it is impossible. He passed away a few years ago,” she shakes her head to get rid of that poignant sensation.

"He still haunts you, apparently. Yet his memory looks like a pleasant one; you seemed attached to him and felt so guilty about letting him down," the detective scrutinises her, recalling her words. She lowers her gaze embarrassed, biting her lower lip.

"Sherlock, this isn't the time for your deductions," John reprimands, him shooting a preoccupied look at the woman.

"I'm not interested in the babbling lunacy of a prodigal daughter,” he snorts, showing his notorious tactlessness. “But I'm much more interested in my first question that is still unanswered: why are you shocked?"

"Because Elisa and I are... were friends _,_ " she quickly corrects, "We have known each other for a long time but lately, we had become closer. I used to lend her a helping hand. I even proposed to buy her house for a price way higher than markets rates knowing she was experiencing some financial difficulties. All the papers containing my estate offer were laying around in the house, waiting only for her signature; the police must have gathered them by now. However, she was never too keen on the idea of leaving this cottage; poor choice but understandable since it was full of memories of her deceased husband. After all, Adam didn't leave her much, not even money in the bank account, since he didn't trust banks. On the bright side, at least they weren't hit that badly by the financial crash of 2008... Unlike us," she shakes her head disconsolately, trying to put an end at her stream of consciousness.

Then she clears her throat swallowing hard to fight the severe dryness in her mouth and throat, and continues, "Had she sold her house to me, she might still have had a chance at a better life. She probably would still be alive... She didn't let me help her, even though I tried to be her friend," she starts gibbering and gets seemingly delirious again.

"Miss, do you want to sit down?" John suggests, putting a hand on her shoulder and helping her leaning against a short wall along the dusty road.

" _Madam_ would be more appropriate. Come on, John, I've taught you better than that. Look at her ring: she's married,” Sherlock nods at her left hand.

The doctor casts a glance at her wedding band and asks, looking around, "Is your husband here in the crowd?"

"No, he isn't," Anderson intervenes.

The doctor raises a brow at him, "And how do you know?"

"As I told you, in small towns some stories live on, and their protagonists get a perennial stigma: everybody knows them. Gentlemen, this is Martha Admiral, Fred's wife."


	29. Getting away with murder?

Sherlock takes Anderson aside and murmurs, "You mean that she is the wife of the jewel thief?"

The forensic officer simply nods, and John joins them, commenting quietly, "I bet she is quite the talked-about woman down here."

"She was talked-about even before the heist. Her husband is an ex-soldier who fought in Iraq. When he came back home, it is thought that he smuggled some weapons in the country, even though no one has ever investigated the matter. Anyhow, I suppose that it wasn't profitable enough for him," a note of malice envelops Anderson's voice.

"Is there a rumour you don't know about?" John glares at him. That man looks like a walking encyclopedia of scandals.

Anderson shrugs dismissively, "Don't look at me like that, it's not my fault if that man has always been in a shady business."

"This gossip is trivial. We are missing the point: why is she in those conditions?" Sherlock cuts them short, making sure to keep out of the woman's hearing range.

"She told you: she is in shock. She has just lost a close friend. I can see now why you are a sociopath," the forensic officer spits out.

Holmes glowers at him, "If I hear one more idiotic syllable coming out of your mouth, my synapses will commit suicide."

John pulls him by his arm, dragging him a few feet away from both the policeman and the woman, "Sherlock, what's going on?"

The detective turns to face him with an annoyed expression on his face and is about to snap back a comment on how rude and insufferable Anderson can be, but he stops dead. No words leave his mouth as he meets John's eyes. There is something in his friend's gaze that he wasn't expecting: concern. He thought that John would reprimand him for being disrespectful, but that is not the reason behind his question. John knows him: he can see that something's wrong with him, that his scathing insult was a facade, a mask to hide his insecurities. Now that he is staring into the doctor's eyes, he feels naked under his inquisitive look: John is waiting for an honest answer, so Sherlock himself is faced with that question: _what's going on, for real?_

He sighs, averting his gaze, "I'm vexed, that's the truth. I have the impression that I'm missing something," his voice barely more than a whisper.

John frowns at his words. _Is this creepy little town getting under his skin? But he is not like that. He always declares himself as the stone-cold sociopath detached from the rest of the world._

"What's there to miss? You must admit that every piece of evidence seems to point against Isaac," he tries to reason with him. _Even the Great Detective needs a reality check from time to time._

"Alright, but what is his motive? He had no reason to kill his mother,” Sherlock objects.

"Neither did anyone else. Our victim had no known enemies: no one had a motive for this murder," John underlines.

"Exactly. _This_ murder. We are only focusing on it, but what if we are looking at it the wrong way? What if it was connected to the other mysteries, somehow?" Holmes conjectures while a glimmer of excitement sparkles in his eyes.

The doctor raises a brow incredulously, "You think that the victim had something to do with the robbery?"

"I was more inclined to believe the Elisa Therton's killer might be the same as her husband, but on second thought, yours is a rather interesting theory," Sherlock folds his hands under his chin, contemplating that idea.

"No, that is usually called a 'conspiracy',” John rolls up his eyes. “You of all people should know better than to speculate arbitrarily. Why are you acting like this? Did this case seriously hit too close to home?" he tilts his head, scrutinising his friend.

Sherlock feels taken off guard and hastens to rebut, "I see. Just like Anderson, you think that I might be _carried away_ because Isaac is a sociopath like me," he sneers, grimacing. "Come on, you know me. I'm Sherlock Holmes: I don't care, I never do, about _anything_."

John keeps his eyes fixed on him, trying to spot the crack in his armour. _I do know you and I think that sometimes you are more human than you'd like to admit,_ he reflects.

"I know that you are the most observant man here, and yet you are overlooking the obvious evidence,” he protests, logically.

The detective shoots him a defeated look, "I'm glad that everything is so obvious to you. I, on my part, am experiencing some sort of... uncertainty. Needless to say, I loathe this sensation. I don't have enough answers."

John gapes at him: _not only this is the first time he hears something like that coming from him, but it is also quite false_. "You do have all the answers you need: you have questioned the main suspect, been on the crime scene, deduced the corpse, the house and even the garden. There is truly nothing else to see, at present,” he widens his arms in surrender. _They have been doing everything by the book_.

Sherlock freezes as John's words inspire a sudden realisation in him, "At present... You are right. What if the key is not in the present but _the past_? What if nobody has a motive for this murder because the real reason dates way back?"

The doctor shoots him a puzzled look, starting to believe that his friend might get as delirious as Martha Admiral. "What are you talking about?"

"John, you are the brightest source of inspiration that a great mind could ever ask for. I think you've just pointed me in the right direction. You are a genius!” he compliments him, in ecstasy. “The things are exactly like you hypothesised a minute ago: this murder is linked to the robbery; the jewels were the real motive all along."

Before John can ask for clarification, a police car pulls over next to the four people assembled by the roadside and a silver-haired man gets out.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, thank you for blessing us with your presence. Have you locked Isaac up for life yet or you're here to gather some more incriminating evidence against him?" Sherlock sarcastically greets him.

The D.I. ignores his comment. "What's going on?" he nods at the woman propped against the wall, still shaken up.

She realises that she has become the centre of attention and quickly affirms, "I should probably go home now." She stands up and takes a few steps forward walking unsteadily, but she loses her grip on her handbag, spilling its content on the ground. She swiftly bends down, putting everything back in as John promptly leaps at her, but she is already finished gathering her possessions so he can only help her stand up again, with a crooked smile on his face.

Sherlock walks closer to his friend; his voice drops to a whisper when he asks, "I wasn't able to get a good look at the inside of her handbag, anything amiss about it? She was incredibly fast to pick everything up, did you notice any vials or syringes, maybe some pills, anything related to drug abuse that could explain her current state?"

John shakes his head. "It looked like any woman's bag. I only caught a glimpse of her wallet, the London Gazzette, a lipstick... I wonder why women's bags are always incredibly heavy," he grumbles.

Lestrade steals a preoccupied glance at the woman, then suggests, "Maybe we could drive you home."

" ** _I_ **could drive you," Sherlock volunteers. Everyone goggles at him.

His friend whispers, "Sherlock, what are you doing? I'd never object to a considerate act of chivalry, but coming from _you_?” he cocks an ironic brow. “What are you hiding?"

"I want to dig deeper into this, and I need more information. I'm not the police; I don't have the luxury to leave any stone unturned,” he murmurs back. “And right now, Mrs Admiral might be the perfect source for a good story. I just need some alone time with her, away from prying ears," he hints at Anderson.

"I thought you despised trash rumours," John remarks.

"Fiercely. But I have the feeling that some of those rumours might be true,” he throws a suggestive look at him.

His flatmate sighs, "And what am I supposed to do?"

"Follow us in a police car, perhaps?" he simpers at him and notices that the woman has been staring confused at him. He walks to her and kindly offers his arm, escorting her to Mrs Hudson's red sports car that they used to get to the crime scene.

* * *

During the ride, Sherlock glances at the woman. "So, Mrs Admiral..." he attempts at breaking the ice.

"You can call me Martha, we are pretty informal around here,” she offers in a relaxed tone. She still swings from moments of seeming delirium to instants of perfect normality.

"I'm not from around here, so tell me: why would a woman, whose husband went to prison for robbery consequently throwing her spouse into a negative light for the rest of her days, befriend another outcast – a widow burdened with a mystery regarding her husband's murder and a son disliked by the whole community?" he inquires without taking his eyes from the windshield.

She sighs with the all the intensity of the exhaustion of that life, "Because I know what it feels like to have everyone's look on the back of your head, to hear your name whispered in every corner. It's called human compassion: ever heard of it?" she lampoons him.

A corner of his lips twitch in a hinted smirk, "I'm afraid you'd be surprised by how ignorant I can be on the matter. Anyway, was your husband close with Adam Therton - Elisa's deceased husband?" he queries again.

"Why do you ask?" she snaps back.

"Getting defensive: did I hit a nerve?” he turns to look at her for a second, before shifting his eyes back on the road. “Just answer, please. Your friend got shot this morning, and I am the most likely person to find out who did it. So, if you want to render her justice, you'd better start talking. I need to get all the pieces of this story,” he affirms. Humility is not one of his finest virtues.

She gulps, surrendering, "They were somehow close when they came back home, at first."

He frowns at her, "Back from where?"

"Iraq. My husband fought there and that's where he met Adam Therton; he found out they came from the same area and bonded when they were in the army,” she tells him.

 _Anderson never mentioned that Mr Therton was a soldier, too; let alone that he had come home together with Mr Admiral. He can't even provide useful gossip_ , Sherlock complains in his head before objecting out loud, "I thought that everybody knew everybody in this small town."

"Everybody, except the Thertons. They have always been quite... peculiar," she struggles to find the right, non-insulting word. "You have been to their house: they isolated themselves. They never had great people skills."

 _And that’s the greatest possible sin against society, right?_ He mentally loathes her way of thinking, then comments, "But you became friends with them after both men came back home, didn't you?"

"Not exactly. My husband Fred introduced me to them, but that's all it was at first: normal acquaintance. His friendship with Adam soon faded away and they drifted apart."

"Why?" Sherlock has every intention to get all the details right.

She shrugs, "I suppose that it was more of comradeship in times of war. After all, Adam was a bit of a weirdo himself. My husband told me about his quirks: he didn't trust banks or government institutions, and he used to roam into the woods alone at night, just for fun,” she shakes her head, then adds in a lower tone, “Bad habit; the woods are dangerous."

"So that's why earlier you said that you and Elisa Therton had become close only recently," he infers, earning a rapid nod from her. "We became actual friends when Elisa lost her husband. I know what it means to be in the spotlight and I wanted to help."

"What did you have to gain?" Sherlock takes his gaze off the road for one second to focus it on her.

She raises a brow, "Do you really think greed is what makes the world go round?"

He looks away, grinning, "Pretty much, yes. But I'd like to know what moved _you_. When you were rambling, you said that you wanted her house..." he prompts her to speak.

"I'm not going to deny that I'd like to live in that quaint cottage, and I've just got a baby: we do need more space. However, I was willing to buy it for a much higher price than its actual worth. I wanted to lend a helping hand to a poor widow," she explains, signalling him that they have reached her house.

He pulls over and fixes his gaze into her eyes, smirking, "I believe you forgot to specify: a widow _who was sitting on half a million-worth of jewels_."

"You mean the heist? Elisa never had anything to do with it," she quickly understands his reference. Sherlock's mind reluctantly concludes, _Anderson was surprisingly right about one thing: ten years later, people still remember the crimes that made the headlines._

"Maybe not, but her husband certainly did. I'm fairly sure that Adam Therton was your husband's accomplice during the robbery, the one that left him behind and got away. This brings me to two logical conclusions: first, your husband murdered his old, traitorous partner six years ago; second, he killed Elisa Therton, too, just this morning. But let me paint the whole picture both for you and the police," he pronounces getting out of the car.

* * *

At almost the same time, a police car stops in front of the house, and Lestrade, Anderson and John step out of it, throwing questioning looks at the detective.

"Now that we are all here, let me tell you a story. Spoiler: it doesn't end well," Sherlock theatrically begins. "As all of you should know by now, this woman's husband, Mr Admiral, went to jail for a jewel heist ten years ago."

"Sherlock, what are you doing? I don't need an open-and-shut case from the last decade. We are here to solve a murder," Lestrade cuts him short.

"Indeed, Detective Inspector. And I could cut to the chase and bring the culprit to justice straight away, but if you want to understand the motive behind this homicide, you'd better pay attention. Now, just a quick summary: Adam Therton, our victim's deceased husband, and Fred Admiral were army comrades. They met in Iraq and came home together only to find our country sunk in a nasty financial crisis. Soon enough, the two fellows were both broke. They weren't that close anymore, but desperate times call for old bedfellows, so we can assume that they planned and executed the robbery together. You know the story,” he steals a derisory glance at Anderson, before continuing, “Mr Admiral was caught and his accomplice was never found, neither were the jewels. Just because the police never retrieved the loot, though, it doesn't mean that Fred wasn't still determined to put his hands on it. After waiting for years, when he got out of prison, he went straight to Adam. Here the story gets really juicy,” he rubs his hands and licks his lips in anticipation.

“Anderson told us that Fred got out early for good behaviour, so we can assume that his old partner was taken off guard by his unexpected reappearance in his life,” he goes on. “Fred knew him well and knew he used to go into the woods at night, so we can easily imagine that one night he must have followed and confronted him, asking for his part. I don't know what happened exactly, but I can presume that Adam didn't want to give up the jewels. Fred must have threatened him, and in the end, he killed him; his rage and thirst for vengeance had built up over four years, after all. I'm not judging, I'm just analysing facts,” he tries to suppress a smug smile.

"These are not facts, these are mad speculations," Martha Admiral fiercely protests, horrified.

"Be patient, I'm getting to the interesting part. Eventually, Fred disposed of the body so as it was never to be found. It was late at night, and nobody was around, so he thought he could easily get away with murder and let people think that Adam had been killed by a wild beast, perhaps. There's just one thing he never knew: he had a witness,” he reveals theatrically.

"There was never a witness, Holmes," Anderson corrects him.

"But you listened to the interrogation,” he fulminates against him. “Isaac has had troubles sleeping since he was a child, and I'm willing to bet that he was awake that night. To be precise, we _know_ that he was up for he saw a man coming out of the woods; you heard his words. He simply absorbed that memory into his dreams and always thought he had only dreamed of it."

"Wait, Sherlock, I perfectly remember that Isaac claimed that he never saw the man's face. Even assuming he wasn't dreaming and imagining it all, how can you say with certainty that it was Fred Admiral?" Lestrade asks him doubtfully. _He has the impression that Sherlock is building castles in the air._

"Because the boy affirmed that the man he saw was wearing a grey coverall. It's pretty obvious now, isn't it?"

Everybody looks at him with wide eyes and a confused expression on their faces. The detective stares into their vacant looks and sighs, "Do you ever hear an echo in the deserted void that are your minds?"

He fishes his phone out of his pocket and makes a call. When someone picks up, he quickly states, "Hello, Sergeant Donovan. I need to speak to Isaac. Put him on the phone, please." He puts it on speaker, and everyone can hear Donovan hissing, "I'm not your assistant," before a male voice replaces hers, "Hello?"

"Hi, Isaac, this is Sherlock Holmes. I just need to ask you a few things. I noticed that you're quite an observant person: can you remember how I was dressed when I interrogated you, this morning?" he inquires earning disconcerted looks by all present.

"Yes,” is the laconic answer coming from the other end of the line

"And do you recall the shirt I was wearing?" the detective tries to get something more out of him.

"I do.”

Five pairs of ears are listening to the conversation but only one knows where this is going.

"What colour was it?" Sherlock encourages him.

"Lilac. It was a lilac shirt," the boy affirms confidently.

Everyone frowns at that statement as they are all staring at the light blue shirt that Sherlock is wearing: it's the same he had at New Scotland Yard.

"Are you sure, Isaac?" he questions, faking a distrustful tone for the benefit of his sceptical audience.

"Yes, I am. Truth be told, I found it weird, but I have no taste in fashion so I can't be the judge of that,” the boy replies tersely. At least no one can doubt his bluntness.

"Thank you. That'd be all," and with that, Sherlock ends the call.

"What does it mean?" Anderson inquires, puzzled.

"It means that you don't pay attention to details. When we went to Isaac's room, you questioned his football faith while looking at the Arsenal crest coloured in green and lilac. What you didn't realise, though, is that Isaac isn't an inattentive fan; he is _colourblind_. Deuteranope, to be exact. People with deuteranopia are likely to confuse mid-reds with mid-greens, or light blues with lilac (as it was the case both for the Arsenal drawing and my shirt). But they can also confuse blue with grey, which means that the man with a grey coverall he saw coming out the woods was actually wearing **_blue clothes_**. And I think we all know what a plumber's uniform looks like," he concludes gesturing towards the entrance of the house, where Fred Admiral has just appeared on the threshold, wearing his blue coverall.

"Honey, what is going on? Why are the cops here?" Fred asks his wife.

"This deranged detective is trying to blame you for murder," she whines alarmed pointing an accusatory finger at Sherlock.

"What does it mean? I got nothing to do with what happened to Elisa," he protests.

"I hadn't gone that far yet but I was getting there," Holmes conceitedly replies before going back to his story. "Before I had to explain to your basic minds how colourblindness works, I was saying that Mr Admiral was after the jewels knowing that his old accomplice hadn't sold and spent the whole plunder; it's not like he bought a big mansion or a Ferrari. He wasn't living a lavish life: he was flying under the radar to ensure that the jewels, slowly sold separately on the black market, would yield him a lifetime revenue. We have one more detail: thanks to all the gossip and chitchat and thanks to what Mrs Admiral confirmed to me mere minutes ago, we know that Adam Therton didn't trust banks and never confided money to those institutions. Logical conclusion: he must have kept the loot close, hidden in his own house."

He looks around to make sure that everyone is following or at least attempting at it. "Next step was easy: after killing Adam, Fred had to search the cottage. That's where _you_ , Mrs Admiral, came in.”

He turns sharply towards her who is frozen in shock, her finger still pointing at him. “Your husband used you as a pawn and encouraged you to become close friends with Elisa to worm the secret stash out of her. Unfortunately for you, Adam had kept his own wife completely in the dark. The more you spoke with her and spent time at her place, the more you realised that not only she didn't have a clue about the robbery and the jewels, but those weren't even in the house: her husband must have buried them in the garden. Whereas a little breaking and entering would have been easy to perform (especially for a former thief), Fred certainly couldn't hope to dig out an entire garden while going unnoticed. I'm quite sure that once again, he resorted to his wife who exploited the Thertons' economic problems to try to lure Elisa into selling her house, but to no avail. The widow wouldn't have left for all the gold in the world,” he makes an intentional pun. “That was her home – the last remaining memories of her husband."

He makes a dramatic pause to catch his breath. "Eventually, Fred couldn't take it anymore, he couldn't wait any longer; four years in prison, six more spent searching, sneaking his way into that house had already been enough. Fast forward to this morning, then: he snapped and killed Elisa. I wouldn't call it a premeditated murder, though. I think he only went to her house to threaten her at gunpoint to convince her to sell the house. But things went down a bit differently; judging by the signs at the crime scene, I can affirm that they struggled a bit before he finally pulled the trigger. Anyway, now that the stubborn woman is dead, the house will most definitely be put up for auction, and I am ready to bet that Mr and Mrs Admiral will be the highest bidders."

"You are out of your mind," Fred starts to protest, coming menacingly near that insolent know-it-all, but Lestrade lifts his police badge to stop him and intervenes, "Sherlock, your story is engaging, I'll give you that, but you haven't proven anything. If Adam Therton was the second thief, where are the jewels, then? We have searched both the house _and_ the garden; you can't seriously suggest we should dig up the whole property."

"Had he tried to sell those precious gems around here, don't you think that local police would have got wind of it? And even in the event that he decided to keep the jewels, don't you believe we would have found those at the crime scene by now?" Anderson interjects scornfully.

Sherlock grimaces at him, "Are those rhetorical questions?"

Lestrade interrupts their banter, "You are basing an accusation for a murder that took place over six years ago on Isaac's memory (who was nine back then). Just a few hours ago you defined that very recollection of his as a ' _figment of his imagination_ '," the inspector quotes the same words that Sherlock had pronounced inside the interrogation room.

"We can't exactly put an expiration date on murders, can we?" Sherlock jeers at him.

"But we have to stick to the limits of jurisdiction, and that cold case is definitely out of my hands. As for the case at issue – which for the record, is the sole reason why you are here and the only homicide that we should be investigating, I'll play along: Mr Admiral can you provide us with your whereabouts between 9 and 10 this morning?" Lestrade asks him with weariness in his voice.

"I was working," he replies curtly.

"Is there anyone that could vouch for you?" the inspector insists.

"All my coworkers. But if it's necessary, I'll give you the surveillance tapes from security cameras on the main entrance of our Plumbers' Company: there's just one way to get in and out of the building. The tapes will show the time I went into work early this morning until I finally came back home half an hour ago,” he answers in a weary tone.

"That would be helpful, thank you," Lestrade nods at him.

"That's it? You won't test his clothes and skin for gunshot residue?” the consulting detective complains. “First thing you did with Isaac was swapping his hands and clothes to take him down for murder. A few hours have already passed since the shooting: this is your last time window to check him too". He is losing his temper: _why doesn't Lestrade arrest him, already? He has just assessed the facts. Did he go too fast for his comprehension skills?_

Greg sighs and addresses Anderson, "Would you mind?"

The forensic officer grimaces but doesn't protest; he quickly opens the police car's boot and takes a briefcase. He wears gloves and professionally pulls out some dabs and swaps.

"Mr Admiral, I have no intention to force you to undergo a gunshot residue test, so if you don't..." Lestrade gets interrupted mid-sentence by the deep voice of the plumber, "I'll do it. I got nothing to hide," and he outstretches his hands towards the forensic scientist.

Anderson wipes down his hands and clothes, then goes back to the briefcase and adds some chemical reagents. While waiting for the colour change to happen to verify the presence of heavy metals and components associated with gunpowder residue (GSR), he clarifies haughtily, "I'm simply running a quick preliminary colourimetric test. When I'm back to the labs in Scotland Yard, I will perform the complete procedure using a Scanning Electron Microscope, but this will give us a head start."

They all intently observe as the samples slowly change colours. Anderson smirks, interpreting the colour change for everyone present, "Negative results to gunshot residue: he's clean."

A frown sets on Sherlock's face. _How is it possible? This can't be. Every piece of the puzzle seemed to fall into place. He was so sure..._

"We're done here. Mr and Mrs Admiral, thank you for your time and apologies for the inconvenience," the D.I. states flatly as the woman runs into her house and slams the front door, outraged.

"Lestrade, what are you doing? You're letting him get away with murder," the detective denounces.

"I'm being sensible, Sherlock; someone here has to be. That man has an ironclad alibi, and the gunpowder test results came out negative: you don't have a shred of evidence against him. I regret to say that apparently this time you got it all wrong."


	30. It's all about chemistry

**_TRIGGER ALERT_** _: mention of self-harm. No graphic nor detailed description, just a mere mention of it, but I thought it'd be fair of me to warn you, dear reader._ _Sending love to anybody who's struggling in their lives. If you want to talk, just PM me: I'm always available._

* * *

"Why didn't you answer my calls? Where were you? Why doesn't anybody reply when I yell in this flat?"

As soon as Giulia walks into the living room of 221B, she is greeted by the barrage of questions coming from a troubled Sherlock. She rolls her eyes, sinking in John's armchair and stealing a glance at her watch: it's 7 pm.

"I didn't think you'd be home so early from the crime scene in the countryside, have you already solved the case? Anyways, I came because I found 10 missed calls from you, eventually,” she shoots him a concerned look, then let her eyes travel all over the place. “What's wrong, then?"

"You'd have known it sooner if you'd answered your phone," the detective snarls.

She throws her hands in the air, exasperated. "For God's sake, I wasn't ignoring you. I simply couldn't answer: I was in the middle of my exams, Sherlock – the ones I have been talking about for the entire past week," she grumbles.

He waves a hand in the air dismissively, "I never listen to you when you are complaining."

She snorts, "I wonder why I do, instead. Why didn't you call John if it was so important?"

"Because he went straight to the clinic when we came back from the countryside, and he never picks up when he is at work," he whines. _He hates being ignored, especially when the reason is John’s mundane job as a doctor. Where’s the excitement in it?_

"Never? And what if something extremely serious happens, as if you were dying?" she asks.

He gives her a condescending look, "If I was dying, John wouldn't be my first call."

"Oh, right. You should call an ambulance first," she logically concludes.

"What? No, the ambulance isn't even on my list," he chortles amused at her simplistic way of thinking.

She tilts her head, puzzled, "Who would you call, then?"

"Scotland Yard, of course."

"The police? When you are on your last breath?" she asks surprised: _Sherlock's low opinion of the cops isn't all that subtle._

"Sure. I would tell them exactly who is trying to kill me. With me gone, it would be too difficult for them to solve the case, and I don't want my murderer to walk away free,” he wrinkles his nose at the idea of becoming a dusty cold case file on Lestrade’s desk.

"What a shame! I really hoped I could get away with your murder," she jokes. At that mention, she notices the nearly imperceptible change in his expression. His eyes dart across the room as if he felt the need to check that there are no dangers around. _Does he believe that someone out there is indeed getting away with murder?_

She leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees. "Seriously, though, you are rarely so concerned and vexed. You are even bitter than usual against Lestrade and his men. What's going on?"

He avoids her gaze and replies in a low voice, "This case at hand... something keeps eluding me. I'm sure that the mysteries in that little town are connected, and I am positive that Fred Admiral is the link: he must have killed Adam Therton six years ago and for some reason, he decided that today Elisa deserved to die as well. But I have no hard evidence for the first murder, no real motive for his apparent outburst of rage that led to the second killing, and I'm stuck with an airtight alibi that places him miles away from the crime scene at the time of the murder."

She processes all the information for a few seconds, then frowns, "And what is my role supposed to be in all of this? Why did you phone me ten times?"

Sherlock whips his head up, looking as if he had just been reminded of something, "Oh, right. Where is the key of the top drawer of the cabinet?" he gestures toward the wooden piece of furniture in the living room.

She gapes at him. _Is that all? 10 missed calls during her exams only to have someone to vent out to and fetch him some stupid keys?_ She sighs and passes a hand over her knackered face. "In the fridge, next to the doorbell I still wonder how the latter ended up there, for the record."

"It kept ringing," Sherlock tersely replies. "Who put the key there and why?"

She walks to the kitchen, explaining, "John did, thinking that since you hardly ever consume any food, it'd be easier to keep away from you the temptation of opening up the drawer and taking your Browning.” Her voice drops an octave on the last word.

She grabs the key and steps closer to Sherlock placing it in his palm. As he closes his fingers around it, he grazes her hand. The mere touch of her fingers sends a stinging sensation through his fingertips spreading quickly all over his body; a thousand needles seem to pierce his skin at once. He frowns and stares at his own hand trying to process what has just happened. _Correction: what has just happened **to him** , because she doesn't seem to have noticed or felt anything odd, which rules out the possibility that their bodies exchanged a little electrified shock. So why did he feel a burning sensation searing his skin when they touched? Was it just the sharp contrast between her hot skin and the frozen cold key placed in the middle of his hand?_

He shakes his head to throw out any unnecessary thought and opens the drawer, taking out his gun. Giulia carefully observes his movements; when his fingers wrap around the firearm, a shiver runs down her spine, causing her to tremble slightly at that sight. She is still haunted by the dark memories of her almost-attempted-murder by the detective.

Sherlock notices her attitude and quickly puts it away, locking the drawer again. _She is having a hard time processing her post-traumatic syndrome disorder: the last thing she needs is for him to trigger it back again. That's understandable; everyone would be in shock, but he can feel that there is something else in her case. The image of him pointing a gun at her wasn’t just reminding her of her brush with death at the bank. It must have awakened a previous, overwhelming trauma,_ he concludes _. Why can't she just open up to him? He is a sociopath, alright, and she definitely wouldn't get any empathy or compassion from him. But he wants to know everything... More specifically, he wants to know her._

She furrows a brow at him, "Why did you need the gun, anyway?"

"I just hoped that while holding a weapon that's familiar to me, it would have become clear why Isaac _allegedly_ decided to kill his mother with his father's handgun instead of his own shotgun. It makes no logical sense to me. Another mystery inside an already mind-boggling case,” he sighs, disheartened.

"Most people usually get to difficult answers when their mind is busy with something else. You should find a distraction," she suggests.

He snorts, "I refuse to be equalised to ' _most people_ '. Although, I guess I could find a way to prevent the atrophy of my brain. I'll do some anatomic experiments, and I wouldn't mind having an assistant," he suggestively says, marching to the kitchen.

"That's it? You made me rush back home just to hold the magnifying lens for you?" she asks bewildered.

He shrugs with a smirk, "Are you going to help me or not?"

* * *

After ten minutes of experiments on several body parts coming from St. Barth's hospital, Giulia drops the tools she was holding for Sherlock and places her hands on the table, breathing heavily.

"I think I'm going to faint," she murmurs.

He doesn't even look up from the microscope and replies mechanically, "Nothing to worry about. Just pay attention not to smash your head against sharp edges or blunt objects."

She shoots him a death stare, "Sherlock, you've got to help me."

He catches an alarmed note in her voice and finally decides to pay attention to her. "What happened?"

She gulps repeatedly, struggling to keep her eyes focused on the table she is holding onto for dear life. "I- I don't know. I guess I've never stared at bloody limbs for so long. The sight of blood seems to affect me; I should have understood it the first time I went to a crime scene with you when I couldn't even enter the room where the corpse was."

"How can you say that you are about to faint?" Sherlock is intrigued by her self-diagnosis.

"It has already happened to me, once. I can recognise the signs: there is a black edge framing my view and narrowing my visual field. Your voice keeps getting further away, and I am covered in a cold sweat," she manages to analyse her symptoms in between heavy breaths.

He takes her hand and guides her to the living room. Oddly enough, he looks way more uncomfortable than the girl who is on the verge of unconsciousness. He immediately realises what is causing his so much awkwardness: _his hand holding hers. It feels weird… or does it? It's not unnatural or anything; it's just that... well, he is not very used to such a gesture. It should be something intimate and comforting, yet his manners are so robotic and clumsy._

"Take a seat. Rest your back on the armchair and breathe normally,” he instructs as if he was teaching a lesson on first aid.

"It isn't working. Could you just talk to me, please?" she begs.

"You want me to talk? About what?" he looks confused.

"Anything, as long as you keep my mind distracted," she shuts her eyes massaging her temples with her hands.

He grants her request and starts jabbering on, "Did you know that Indium (atomic number 49) is a chemical element used to make touch screens, flat-screen TVs and solar panels? That's because it can conduct electricity and create strong bonds with glass. Its name derives from the bright indigo line in its spectrum."

She keeps her eyes closed and exhales deeply while murmuring, "Interesting choice of subject. No, I didn't know it."

He steals a glance at her, "Are you feeling any better?"

"Hydrogen," she replies flatly.

He arches a brow, wondering if he misheard. "Sorry?"

"Hydrogen is my favourite chemical element," she states in a slightly firmer voice.

He cocks a brow at that peculiar opinion. _Do people have favourite elements or is it just one of her quirks?_ he wonders. "How so?" he asks intrigued.

"It can give both life and death. Have you ever thought about it? Two atoms of hydrogen bound to one atom of oxygen result in a molecule of water: H2O. Water: the foundation of life. And then there's the hydrogen bomb or thermonuclear weapon, of course. We created a weapon of mass destruction out of the very means that generated life. Aren't we obtuse?"

"Yes, most of you are," he chuckles.

She cracks her eyes open and peeps at him, "Do you ever feel like part of humankind?"

"Rarely and mostly from an anthropological point of view," he spits out haughtily, then his voice softens as he asks, "How are you feeling?"

"Better. Thank you," she swallows hard and gives him a grateful smile. "After this, I'm going to put up a notice in the newspaper to find a proper assistant for your experiments," she jokes around, but at those words, something in Sherlock's mind clicks.

 _Notice in the newspaper_. It echoes in his subconscious, setting the gears of his brain into motion. All of a sudden, it hits him: _the London Gazzette, the paper John caught a glimpse of, in Mrs Admiral's purse. When she tripped and knocked over her handbag spilling everything on the ground, John gave him a list of the contents including the London Gazette. But why should it be relevant to the case?_ An epiphany is on its way but he can't catch up with the realisation just yet.

Giulia shoots a glance at his bewitched expression. "What's wrong? Don't worry, I wasn't seriously suggesting I will liquidate our fruitful business of slashing cadavers open," she mocks him.

"Liquidate... Yes!" he cries out, making Giulia jump in the armchair. He powers on John's computer with an ecstatic expression on his face and starts a frantic search on the Internet.

"What are you doing?" the girl hesitantly questions. _And what was so remarkable about her joke?_

"Scrolling through the latest issue of the London Gazzette,” he answers distractedly.

"Never heard of it. Is it a paper for the local news?"

"No, it is the UK's Official Public Record. Mrs Admiral, a delirious woman from the town of the crime scene, was carrying it in her purse," Sherlock replies, typing impossibly fast on the keyboard.

"And how could the Public Record possibly be of any interest to her?" she inquires scratching her head.

"I wondered the same. I found it quite odd, at first, but I disregarded that detail trying to focus on her health conditions. However, now I can't help but think that if she bought it, it means she was looking for something, expecting to read something relevant to her. And I think I've just found the answer," he flashes a toothy smile and shows her the screen.

She stares at a notice about the bankruptcy of a Plumber's Company. "Should I presume that this woman is connected to this company? Was she employed there and lost her job due to the liquidation?"

"Way worse than that. She was the owner of the company: she had inherited it – which means that this morning she got the worst news ever: the imminent liquidation of her father's hard work. When we met her, she was experiencing some sort of drug-induced hallucinations and while looking at John, she thought that she saw her deceased father. By simply paying heed to her ravings, it wasn't too difficult to infer that financial strains were plaguing the company. When she thought she was talking to the ghost of her parent, she apologised profusely and felt guilty for letting her dad down. She affirmed that she was ready to do _anything_ to save the company. What if 'murder' was an option, too?"

"Are you saying that she might be the killer?" she tries to follow his reasoning.

He sighs, "Maybe, but I still don't have anything to back this theory up. No proof.” His tone is discouraged. _He had a distinct feeling that he was getting closer to the solution._

"How can I help?" she instinctively proposes.

His eyes immediately light up. "You did help. Just a few minutes ago your ironic remark sparked an idea in me. Just do me a favour and keep talking: you're helping the stream of my thoughts. Now you are the one who has to do the talking for me. What were you saying earlier? Hydrogen, life, death..." he vaguely gestures to prompt her to pick up on her previous comments.

She laughs and plays around, "I was just raving, I guess. Hydrogen is indeed my favourite element, but simply because it's the easiest one on the periodic table. Atomic number: 1. Atomic mass: 1. Position: top left. That's all I needed to know. I've never been too keen on chemistry. I always feared to get a chemical reaction wrong and get poisoned with some toxic substance."

At that moment, Sherlock understands what Giulia meant earlier about distractions. His brain was so focused on hunting down nebulous connections that another realisation strikes like thunder, forcing him into his mind palace. _Poisoned: she must have been poisoned rather than drunk or high. But how did it happen? And how does this detail connect her to the murder?_

_He opens a door in his mind palace and he is on the crime scene again. He ignores the corpse in the living room as he feels driven to the garden. When he steps outside, a reproduction of the Therton's dog, the one that was found dead on the grass, runs to him wagging his tail. He squats down to play with it: he would never admit it out loud, but he has always had a soft spot for dogs._

_"Hey, buddy, what happened to you? How did you die?" he asks the dog, scratching behind his ears. In response, the dog starts biting his cuff. He tries to yank it from its mouth and jokingly scolds it, "You'd better not chew it." He stops dead as he finally connects all the dots: the dog didn't simply die of asphyxiation: it had been eating a poisonous substance. And he knows exactly what that was._

He comes back to reality, springing to his feet and shouting, "Toxic!Yes, toxic to the human body, lethal to a dog. Finally, all the pieces fit together." He claps his hands and twirls around the place much to Giulia's amusement.

"What are you talking about? Did she kill a woman and a dog, too?" she gets always horrified by how gloomy Sherlock's world is: murderers, psychopaths, lunatics of any kind. And yet, she can't help but feel a slightly morbid attraction to it. _It... or him?_

"I solved the case. Now I know how everything truly went down," he affirms, taking his long coat from the coat rack and urging her, "There is not a minute to lose. We need to hurry up. Martha Admiral's life might be in danger."

Giulia arches a brow at the name he had pronounced a few minutes before, "The crazy woman who mistook John for her dead father?"

"Yes, except that she isn't crazy at all. At the time, I deduced that she must have been high on drugs given her symptoms, but your little joke about chemical elements made me realise that my diagnosis was wrong: she was poisoned."

She pales, "Poisoned? My goodness, this is serious, we should call an ambulance and notify the police."

"Yes, in due time," he says, standing in the doorway and hinting at the stairs. He stares at Giulia as she hurriedly stands up and fumbles with her coat and scarf. _This isn't a good idea. Deep down he knows that involving her in his life, in his cases has never been a good idea. He should stop her, leave her there, go alone. That would be the wisest thing to do; it's the usual protective instinct he always adopts towards his friends. He threw an American spy out the window multiple times when Mrs Hudson was attacked, for crying out loud. He would do **anything** to protect his friends._

_So why isn't he stopping Giulia? Common sense would suggest to leave her at home, safe and sound._

He pauses for just one second as all of his considerations lead up to one thought: _he is not stopping her because he does want her to come. He wants to keep her close. But that is a selfish, hazardous game. If anything was to happen to her..._

He prevents himself from finishing that thought: _there's no time for that_. Still, he cannot hold back one more realisation, something about himself that he hasn't come to terms with yet: _among all his noble concerns for the safety of another human being and the risks of living with him, one of the real reasons why he had tried hard to push Giulia away a few weeks ago, to cut her out of his life completely wasn't just to protect her... he wanted to protect himself, too._

_To a sharp, ice-cold mind like his brother's, that would be considered as 'disadvantage'. But to an insufferably all too human Sherlock Holmes, it is much more than that. It's dangerous._

Giulia frowns at his torn expression, "Why are you staring at me like that?"

He breaks from his pensive contemplation and hisses at her approaching the switch, "Don't turn off the lights!"

She turns to him with a confused expression, "Why?"

"Because your armed bodyguard will want to tag along, and I'm not in the mood for unnecessary passengers," he looks out the window at the man in dark clothes standing in the street. Sherlock strolls across the room, cracks the window open, places a dusty gramophone next to it and puts on a Bach vinyl record.

As the melancholic sound of a violin fills the air resounding in the street below, he simpers, "We'll let him think that we are both at home while we sneak out through one of Mrs Hudson's windows overlooking an alley at the back of this building, where her car is parked."

She smirks at his getaway plan but objects, "If I try to get rid of my bodyguard, Mycroft will go nuts."

He winks at her, "I'm counting on that."

* * *

When they jump in Mrs Hudson's car, she looks at him, "Where are we going?"

He turns on the engine and peels out. "Back to the countryside. We need to get to Mrs Admiral as soon as possible, before either her symptoms lessen and eventually disappear, or intensify and lead to her death."

She shivers, "The first case scenario looks positive to me."

"It isn't. I need to verify my hypothesis, I need to check all possible signs of poisoning," he explains, darting along the road.

She knits her brows. "Check? You never need to check anything. Why are you so insecure?"

"Oh, please, I'm never insecure. But this case has proved to be quite challenging: I thought I had the right answer all along, but could never get the whole picture. All these doubts have had a strange effect on me. The haunting feeling of unease... the impression that I was one step behind the whole time..." he stops his self-pity spiral and casts a glance at Giulia: her head is leaning against the seat, her eyes peacefully closed. _Has she dozed off?_

"Are you even listening to me?" he asks, his voice low.

She nods slowly, keeping her eyes shut. "Yeah, I've had a long day. I just need to rest my eyes for a bit," she replies, trying to stifle a yawn, but he notices it.

"It's a long drive. Why don't you sleep a bit? I won't try to wake you up with my monologues, I promise," he hints at a smile.

She opens her eyes and turns to him with a serious expression, "No, I don't want to leave you alone."

He shrugs, "I can survive. I've been alone before, a lot."

She keeps staring at him, "And that's precisely why I won't let it happen again."

He takes his eyes off the road for a second to look back at her. _What does she truly think of him? Why is she always by his side, no matter what? Is it just 'Florence Nightingale syndrome'? Is he just a hopeless person for her to save?_

He focuses again on the dark streets. "In this case, even though I'm quite obviously not a fan of pop culture, maybe some music will help you stay awake."

Both of them reach for the radio; their fingers brush against each other before Sherlock can quickly withdraw his hand, placing it back on the wheel. _That burning sensation again, a heat that spread through his chest up to his cheeks. What is wrong with him?_

She throws him a timid smile and fiddles with the commands until she settles for a delicate ballad. She relaxes in her seat and stretches her back. He steals a glance at her and briskly inquires, "Aren't you tired of it all yet?"

She gives him a quizzical look; he doesn't meet her gaze, but wonders, "How can an _apparently rational_ human being such as yourself bear this lifestyle of ours?"

She sighs, "Look, Sherlock, all these things that keep happening to us, all the cases, terrorists, violent deaths, my kidnapping... it's exhausting, it's true. But I was never made for an easy life."

He turns his head to her, "Will you ever tell me more about your life?"

This time Sherlock's eyes are fixed on hers, and she is the one who averts the gaze, "I will. When I feel ready to talk about it, I promise I will. In the meantime, why don't you tell me why this case is so important to you?” she changes the subject. “As much as it pains me to say it, this should be just another murder to you. You don't get so excited, usually."

"You don't understand: I don't care about the victim,” he rebuts in an utterly neutral tone.

"Then why were you going mad?"

"Because of that boy, because of what they are doing to him – the inhabitants of his hometown, Anderson and the other officers. I _know for a fact_ that he has already suffered more than necessary. And I don't just mean the tragic loss of his parents; he suffers from a much deeper, way worse kind of pain... Depression," he murmurs in a breath.

She frowns puzzled, "How do you know?"

He cocks a brow: _she should know the answer already. He notices everything; that’s his gift and his curse._ "I might seem oblivious to other people's mental issues, but I'm very observant. When I went to the crime scene – his house, I noticed something apparently out of place in his bathroom: he had a razor."

"Isn't it normal? Many men shave in the morning,” she points out.

"Isaac is fifteen and he has a real kid's face. He won't need a razor for another year at least. And this is why I need to check something. Take the wheel," he carelessly states before fumbling in his pockets to catch his phone.

She leaps to the steering wheel and grasps it, striving to keep the car moving ahead in a linear manner, "Sherlock!"

He ignores her panicked voice and makes a call as if that was the most natural thing to do. "Lestrade? Did you get lab results on that bloodstained towel you found in Isaac's wardrobe?" He makes a pause, seemingly giving his interlocutor time to reply, but then jumps in, "Don't tell me: it only half-matches Elisa Therton's DNA."

Giulia can distinctly hear a sigh on the other side of the line and a hoarse voice pronouncing, "Should I ask how you know that?"

"Irrelevant. But you got the wrong man. In _every_ possible sense. Send a squad to the Admirals' house. And before you object:

  * _yes_ , I am sure this time;
  * _no_ , I don't have the time to explain now;
  * so _yes_ , you'll have to trust me. Just a leap of faith, Detective Inspector," Sherlock quickly lists before ending the call.



He puts away the phone just in time to regain control of the wheel and guide the car back into its lane.

"What the hell? You can't just let go of the wheel while driving!" Giulia screams at him, and he shrugs.

"What was that about? Whose blood is that?" she inquires, passing her hand on her sweaty forehead.

"Isaac's. He cuts himself. Do you get it now, why this case matters? Everyone is treating him like some sort of joke. He's being framed just because he is different. I won't allow this farse any longer, because I know what it means; I'm a sociopath too and I've been an outsider all my life. And let's face it, I didn't exactly turn out the best possible way. Nobody should experience that. I will not let them turn Isaac into a monster."

She gazes at him for a few seconds. There is no pity in her eyes; _she isn't staring at a sociopath or a loner. Despite what he thinks of himself, she is just looking at a broken human being._

She whispers, "For what it's worth, I don't think that you are a monster."

_She'd swear she saw a glimpse of a smile on his lips. Although, she cannot be sure now. It was just for a second, like a flash, then he straightened his mouth in a flat line, forcing an indifferent expression. It is as if he tried to contain himself, to control the instinctive reaction of his body. He probably does that all the time: his brain must always be in charge. No exterior signs can ever mirror what he hides within._

She glances at him. _However, his system is glitchy; he fails to control his eyes. He would have to shut them close to prevent his green-blue irises from revealing his mood, his sensations. She can read his look sometimes, and that is why she is so daunted right now: he keeps his eyes fixed on the road. What is he thinking? Has he realised that she doesn't judge him, never did, never will? Does he even care? Or is he thinking about the case again? Work, just work, incessantly, day and night, only work in his mind. Does he ever think about something else, about someone else? Does he ever think about her?_

_That last question comes as a surprise to her. Why would she even wonder such a thing? It's impossible, it's absurd. It would be too dangerous for him: that would cloud his judgement, his reasoning process – the thing he lives for. He could never grant anybody such power over his mind. No one will ever reign over his mind palace: that would be his ruin._

_And she, on her part, should never even entertain such foolish thoughts. She knows better than that: she must keep the whole world at distance, far away from her heart. She cannot allow herself to give in to any kind of affection. Not anymore. Not after what happened the last time she loved somebody. She ended up annihilated. She is just learning to piece herself back together again._

_She must pull the brakes now, stop whatever it is that she is feeling, stop whatever might be and never should. She should just stop. Love will always destroy her; it will murder her without mercy. She should stop. So why isn't she? Why doesn't she pull away, why can't she stop?_

She peeks at Sherlock, and a sudden realisation dawns on her: _He will be the death of her._


	31. No-one's who they seem

Half an hour later, after updating Giulia in great detail about the case, Sherlock hits the brakes abruptly making the tyres screech on the cobblestones in front of the Admirals' house. As he turns off the engine, he gives Giulia a smug smile, "You can drive on our way back if you want."

She looks almost terrified and replies, "That's kind of you, but no, thanks. I don't want to run this astonishing car into a tree."

He cocks a brow, "You can't drive?"

"Oh, I can drive perfectly well. Just... on the other side of the road," she shrugs. _She still has troubles remembering where to look when she crosses the street. Why do Brits have to behave differently from everyone else in the world?_

He jumps off the car and bangs loudly on the door while yelling, "Mrs Admiral? Mrs Admiral, please open up!"

A few seconds later, Fred shows up on the threshold and looks daggers at him, "How dare you come to my house again after what you accused me of, the last time you were here?"

"Don't worry, Fred, I'm not here for you. I'm looking for your wife," Sherlock declares, pushing him aside and making his way into the house.

"What do you want from her now?" the man tailgates him with a distrustful look.

The detective ignores his question and looks around the empty living room, "Where is she?"

"In the bathroom, she isn't feeling very well at the moment," Fred reluctantly replies, hesitant to give personal details about his wife.

"I knew it," Sherlock almost spins around full of joy. "What are her symptoms?"

The man does a double-take. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come on, Mr Admiral, a bit of cooperation here. Tell me precisely what signs your wife has been showing in the last few hours," Sherlock commands impatiently.

Mr Admiral scratches the back of his head trying to recall every single detail. "When she came back home, she couldn't even tell me what had happened _with you._ She was staggering. She complained that her mouth and throat were so dry that she could hardly swallow. I couldn't understand a word of what she said: she wasn't making any sense," he starts recounting.

"That's it?" the detective stares at him, his perceiving eyes look like they could cut through the man’s skull to force out his thoughts.

Fred wrinkles his nose, "She had a headache and was feeling dizzy. After you left, she lamented that her heart was beating crazily fast..." he is interrupted by Sherlock who pedantically specifies, "It's called tachycardia."

He waves a hand in the air, dismissively, "Yes, well, I thought it might be a physical reaction to all the stress you put her in," he gives the detective a stern look. "About that, you should leave now. I don't like unattended guests," he hisses, pushing him towards the door.

"Not even the ones that might save your wife's life?" Sherlock moves Fred's hands away from him and straightens the lapels of his coat.

The man stops and fixes his gaze in the eyes of that hideous meddler, "What do you mean?"

"The list of her symptoms is quite long: staggering, dryness in mouth and throat, slurred speech, confusion, headache, dizziness, elevated heart rate," he quickly sums up. "Everything you have just said is consistent with Atropa Belladonna poisoning. It's a toxic plant also known as _deadly nightshade_. Its toxins can cause severe clinical disorders, affecting both internal organs and the central nervous system; hence the hallucinations she experienced in front of us, at the crime scene. If your wife doesn't get medical attention immediately and provides the doctors with this specific diagnosis, she might not make it. So I'd suggest you call an ambulance now,” Holmes simpers at him.

Fred pales, nods vigorously and quickly walks away to look for his phone. In the meantime, Sherlock makes a phone call as well.

"Hey Sherlock, where are you?" John's voice resonates through the speakers.

"I went back to the countryside with Giulia to solve the case," he answers casually as if a woman's life wasn't at stake.

"Wait, are you done already?" the doctor sounds surprised, especially considering how Sherlock monumentally failed just a few hours before.

"Almost there,” he fakes a yawn. “Could you please check the news, the Internet – anything really – to see if something juicy comes up? I'd like to get back to work immediately," he hurries him in a troubled voice.

"I'm on it."

Sherlock ends the call only to meet Giulia's inquisitive gaze. "Why are you so eager to find a new case?" she asks, placing her hands on her hips.

"You know I'm always restless. My superior intellect needs to be constantly stimulated. Moreover, I didn't enjoy this case. I got too... involved," he struggles on the last word as his eyes evasively scan the living room.

"You mean _emotionally_ involved," she underlines.

He raises a brow in a scornful grimace, "That would imply that I am capable of emotion."

She smirks, "Sometimes you remind me of the Tin Woodsman from the Wizard of Oz who thinks he has no heart."

He frowns at that reference as childhood memories rush to his mind; his mother had forced him to read that book in hopes that he would learn a valuable lesson; three things are fundamental in life: brain, heart, and courage. Unfortunately, he had chosen to narrow the list down to one. "Strange,” he comments. “I agree more with the Wizard when he says to the Tin Woodsman: ' _As for you, my galvanized friend, you want a heart. You don't know how lucky you are not to have one. Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable',_ " he quotes by heart. He stops there, deliberately leaving out the reply of the Tin Woodsman, who objects _‘But I still want one.’_ And he wonders if he would reply the same. _He who has always abhorred the very idea, would ever desire to feel emotions?_

She stares at him, fascinated by his unlimited knowledge and his quirky ideas. _She cannot say she disagrees, though. She made the choice of renouncing to her heart more than a year ago; she didn't know what to do with a broken heart, anyway. And living heartless is easier, more 'practical' even – as the Wizard thinks. She can still feel other sensations: fear, for instance, is visceral. Contempt for the people that destroyed her, her thirst for justice... those are matters of the mind. She can feel all that and still keep her distance. The only feeling she consented to be deprived of was affection: that's the one thing the heart is good at – getting attached. And the one thing it has no defences against._

She instinctively casts a glance at Sherlock. _But at what cost? Is some warmth inside worth the risk of heartbreak?_

"The ambulance is on its way," Fred announces concerned, rousing her from her stream of consciousness.

Sherlock checks his watch and smiles. "Lovely. They should arrive simultaneously with the police, then.”

The man frowns at him, "You alerted the cops? Why?"

"Oh, it's very easy, Mr Admiral. Because your wife shot and killed Elisa Therton."

* * *

The house becomes silent and still as Fred stares at Sherlock with wide eyes, "This is nonsense."

"I'll have you know I highly value logical sense and rationality," he arrogantly replies.

"You've got to stop pinning murders on people. I'm actually glad you called the cops; I'll have you forcefully removed from my house, and I'll file a restraining order against you. Let me check on my wife and see if she needs any assistance before I kick you out of here", he shakes his head and goes upstairs, groaning.

"So, is she really the killer?" Giulia tentatively asks when he is out of hearing range.

Sherlock turns to her, seemingly offended by her question. "Obviously. In my first solution of the case, I was right about _almost_ _everything_ : I correctly deduced that Adam Therton was the second thief and that he was indeed killed by Fred in a fit of anger and revenge. I still don't have hard evidence for that, but I trust Isaac's memory of that night. His colourblindness helps explain the detail of the man in a coverall coming out of the woods – which is highly unlikely to have been just a dream, given Fred's work clothes. However, for what concerns Elisa's killer, I mistook the member of the pair. I regret to say, I didn't give Mrs Admiral enough credit; the whole time, I thought she was just a pawn in her husband's hands whereas she masterminded the entire plan."

"Women empowerment, Sherlock," Giulia reprimands him mockingly.

"I'm a strong advocate of gender equality; to me, you are all equally idiot," he scoffs at her. "Anyway, when her husband presumably came clean to her about both the robbery and Adam's murder, I am confident that she decided to take things into her own hands and approached the wailing widow lending her a helping hand. She took her time to assess the situation, becoming a constant presence in that house, getting to know the people, their habits, everything. Up to this point, my deductions were flawless, so we'll just skip the part when she realised that the jewels weren't hidden in the cottage but rather buried in the garden, and tried her hardest to convince Elisa to sell the house to become the rightful owner of that land. And when it became clear that the widow would never give in, she planned Elisa's murder carefully, with the specific intention of framing Isaac,” he sums up.

She tilts her head to the side, "Framing how?"

"First thing: the murder weapon. A few hours ago, I expressed to you my confusion and doubts as to why Isaac might have chosen to shoot his mother with his father's handgun rather than his own shotgun, and I have my answer now: he didn't. We can assume that Mr Admiral informed his wife of his criminal activities, including the smuggling of Iraqi weapons into the country that he kept going when he came back home from the war. Thus, she learned that Adam Therton, his former comrade, was part of the ring, too. Consequently, he possessed the very same firearms as Fred. When she became a regular visitor in the house, she could test the waters and see for herself exactly what kind of handguns were still there. She carefully chose a weapon that both men had smuggled and kept. By firing a model that she knew was also in the Therton's house, she made it incredibly easy for biased policemen and forensic scientists to believe that Isaac must have used his dad's gun to kill his mother. Only ballistics can confirm whether or not the firearm of the Thertons has been fired recently, but we can suppose that she hoped that, with any luck, the preliminary analysis would mostly focus on matching the bullet wound to the calibre (which obviously does), making a crystal clear connection that would contribute to incriminating Isaac,” he concludes in a gloomy tone. _And it almost bloody worked. All because of unfounded mistrust for a defenceless outsider._

"You are implying poor police work," she scolds him.

He shrugs and corrects her, "I'm just entailing that the human brain is eager to jump on the most logical answer that manifests to it. And the easier it appears to be, the quicker we convince ourselves that we found the truth. I'm criticising their biased approach against someone who they consider to be 'different', not against their overconfidence about the culprit. The latter is just a result of pride, something even I indulged in when I was sure I had figured out everything about this case," the tiniest note of shame is barely noticeable in his voice.

"Still, that couldn't' be enough to frame a fifteen-year-old for murder," Giulia insists.

He smirks, _Seeing her inquire stubbornly about every detail to get the full picture makes him oddly proud._

"Precisely, that's why her next step was choosing the perfect time window. She had become a family friend, so she knew exactly what Isaac's routine and movements were like. She knew when he would go hunting in the woods, making him the perfect suspect once the gunshot residue test on his hands and clothes would come out positive, due to his little adventures after wild animals," Sherlock explains.

"Why accusing Isaac, though?" Giulia asks perplexed.

"Simple: the only way the Admirals could get their hands on the longed-for house would be through auction, but that could only occur in the case of absence of legal heirs. With Elisa gone, her son would have inherited it, and they would have had the same problem all over again. There was no way the whole family could be murdered: it'd be suspicious, to say the least. Moreover, without any identified killer, the house would have probably become a longstanding crime scene. So, she chose the most convenient move: she killed the mother and blamed the son. _Killing two birds with one stone,_ ” he plays with the words.

"It seems plausible. And yet, there's one more thing I don't get: what made you realise she was the real killer?" the girl asks again.

"I told you back in Baker Street: the fact that she was poisoned. That's the whole point of us being here now: I came to check if all her symptoms were consistent with my diagnosis of Atropa Belladonna poisoning. Clear as day, isn't it?" he throws his arms open.

She sighs, "Not really, no. What is Atropa Belladonna and how did she even get poisoned in the first place?"

"It is a poisonous plant with purple flowers; I spotted and studied some bushes of it in a fenced part of the Therton's garden. I archived that information in my mind palace labelling it as irrelevant, but that little _fainting stunt of yours_ at the flat brought it back to my mind," he taunts her. "When you talked about chemistry and poisonous substances, it hit me: her weird behaviour and all those apparent signs of drug abuse were, in fact, a dreadful reaction to dangerous toxins of that plant."

"How does it work? You see someone delirious, you hear the word 'poison', and all the pieces magically fall into place?" she shoots him a puzzled, disoriented look. _That mind of his is a maze where only he can find the path. Asking him to break down his reasoning process is equivalent to solving an equation, step by step._

He snorts, "There's nothing magical about logical deductions. I managed to trace the exact cause of her illness because I realised that I had already seen nasty symptoms at the crime scene: on the dead dog."

"You never mentioned that the dog had been poisoned," she protests.

"Because I was only able to resolve it in my mind palace. On the crime scene, I couldn't understand what had caused his death, but by putting together the respiratory difficulties that I deduced it had experienced before dying and the worrisome symptoms shown by Mrs Admiral, I concluded that those two living beings were infected by the same poison. And they showed different reactions by reason of the physiological structure of their bodies. In point of fact, Atropa Belladonna plant is sometimes more toxic to domestic animals than it is to humans," he describes in a professional tone.

"Slow down, Mr 'Chemistry set'. You just said that Atropa Belladonna was a bush in the Thertons' garden. How could it poison both Mrs Admiral and the dog?" Giulia struggles to follow him.

"In two different ways, actually. The dog ate the poisonous fruit of the plant when Mrs Therton left the gate of the fence open, minutes before being killed. As for Mrs Admiral, the way the poison entered her organism is precisely the clue that unmistakably indicates that she is the killer,” he alludes suggestively.

This time, she doesn’t voice her question, but silently stares at him, nodding that he should carry on with the explanation.

He rolls up his eyes at her stubbornness. "When I examined the scene, I deduced that just before being shot, Mrs Therton had been gardening, taking care especially of one bush with purple flowers: there were pruning residues of Belladonna on the ground of the fenced grass. She was presumably interrupted when Mrs Admiral stormed into the house for one last desperate attempt at a bargain for the sale of the house. She threatened Elisa hoping to get her to sign her estate offer, but Elisa reacted and fought her off by wielding the grass shears that she was holding. In the struggle, she must have injured Martha, and some of the plant remains that were on the blades entered her bloodstream, poisoning her. This also explains why the grass shears were missing from the crime scene; Mrs Admiral took them since they were stained with her blood: not exactly the ideal clue to leave behind. Now, let me just verify my deductions..." he trails off, striding across the living room up to one of the chairs where Mrs Admiral handbag is placed. He recognises it: it is the one she dropped in front of them that very afternoon.

He takes a tissue, sticks his hand in, and delicately pulls out a pair of blood-smeared grass shears, careful not to contaminate it with his fingerprints. He smirks, "John was right: women's bags are indeed full of items that make them quite heavy."

She goggles at him, then frowns, looking around. "Where are the Admirals, by the way?" she wonders, considering that some minutes have already passed since Fred went upstairs.

"Packing their baggage for prison?" he jokes around.

Giulia smiles at him for a second, then her expression suddenly changes, and a shadow falls on her face as she whispers, "Sherlock, shut up, I think I heard something... Duck!" she screams as soon as she catches the glimpse of the metallic reflection of a gun barrel shimmering at the top of the darkened staircase.

As she leaps toward him, a gunshot reverberates through the walls.

* * *

** 221B Baker Street **

_ In the meantime _

_This is mortally boring!_ John mentally grumbles at his computer, looking for a new case.

He passes a hand over his tired face and lets out a loud sigh. _He can't believe that Sherlock solved that case in such a short time. What is even more incredible is that he went back to the countryside for the second time that day. He realises just now that all the events related to that case (the trip to the crime scene, the weird encounter with Mrs Admiral, and Sherlock's wrong accusations of her husband) have actually happened only in the span of one day. Their life is so full and busy that it is difficult to keep track of what happens daily._

He stretches up his arms and goes back to the search for a new adventure. He keeps scrolling down the Inbox full of requests for the Consulting Detective, reading the emails distractedly until one catches his attention. Anonymous sender

He grunts, _Why do people even go to the trouble of contacting them if they don't want to disclose their identity? Don't they know that Sherlock doesn't do anonymous clients?_

He opens the email: no subject and no content except for an attachment – a newspaper article from one year ago.

He rolls his eyes, annoyed. _Why would someone bother to collect and attach an old article without giving the slightest information about themselves? Are people incapable of using their own words to describe what their case is about?_

He skims the text absentmindedly then frowns when his eyes land on the picture of a happy family featured in the article. He blinks repeatedly and leans towards the screen, shocked: _that's not possible. It can't be._

He goes back up to read the title and the first lines attentively.

**_ Explosion in Italian Consulate: the Consul's family decimated _ **

_ Due to a gas leak, a massive explosion burst down an Italian Consulate in Latin America. As soon as the firefighters arrived on the scene, 90% of the building had already been destroyed by the flames. Official sources have confirmed three fatalities: the Consul, his wife and one of their daughters – the girl on the right in the photo. _

He looks at the picture again, and all the colour drains from his face.

* * *

** The Admirals' House **

In the exact moment Fred fires his weapon, Giulia leaps towards Sherlock and tackles him to the ground. The impetus of her jump flings them on the carpet of the living room. Sherlock falls backwards while Giulia lands on top of his chest making him cough out all the oxygen he had in his lungs. She whips her head up with an apologetic look and rapidly scans his expression for signs of pain.

His face is just a few inches away from hers; his breath brushes against her lips as he tries to take in a gulp of air. A tuft of her hair hangs loose in front of her forehead, falling down to stroke Sherlock's cheek. As they are entangled on the floor, she tries to shift away from his diaphragm, letting him breathe normally. She doesn't utter a sound, but she checks on him by staring into his piercing eyes; _they are so close._

He inhales deeply and props himself up on his elbows, groaning, "In your previous life, did you play rugby, by any chance?"

She doesn't have the time to come up with a witty reply to his ironic remark because he clutches her arm and pulls her close to him, dragging her out of the line of fire. He tries to shelter both of them behind the sofa as Fred takes aim again and shoots in their direction. Sherlock instinctively bends down as a bullet grazes a cushion of the backrest that is shielding him and flies just a few inches above his head. Some more shots are fired as they crouch down trying to make themselves less of a target.

"You will never get to her, you will never lay a finger on my wife!" Mr Admiral shouts angrily, firing away.

Giulia looks at Sherlock with terrified yet determined eyes, "What do we do now?"

Holmes shuts his eyes for a second, raising his fingers up to his temples while elaborating an exit strategy inside his mind place: he has memorised the plan of the ground floor of the house, and a clear exit path appears in his brain. He snaps his eyes open and rapidly explains, "We need to distract him long enough for us to sneak out. From where we are standing, the rear door is closer than the main entrance and easier to reach. If we manage to get there, we'll be out in the garden and we could run to the car parked in the driveway. But we still need a diversion." He lets out a low moan of defeat, "I wish I hadn't locked my Browning in that drawer."

"Would this do the trick, anyway?" she draws her gun out of the pocket of her coat. "Before you ask, that's why it took me a while to get ready back at Baker Street: I was taking the gun out of my other coat hung on the rack. It's not like I bring weapons with me to my exams," she manages to joke around.

Sherlock's eyes sparkle, "You _did_ like my Christmas gift, then. Excellent choice having it on you."

"I figured that, since you made me leave my bodyguard behind, I could at least bring with me another instrument of the Holmeses' protection," she winks at him.

She hands it over to Sherlock who quickly illustrates, "Here's the plan: I'll fire some shots at him while you grab and topple that little wooden table on your right, next to the armrest of this sofa. We are going to use it as a shield to get to the rear door. It's not the best cover, but we only have to run for a couple of metres: it'll be enough. All clear?"

"Yes, sir," she promptly replies.

"Are you ready?" he asks the girl, placing his left hand on her shoulder in a reassuring and encouraging gesture. She nods and takes a deep breath. The next thing she knows, her hands are grasping the wooden stand as she knocks it over and lifts it by levering one of the table legs with her shoulder. She tries to squeeze her body behind it, making room for the detective who takes off the gun safety and fires several times against Fred, struggling to get a clear shot since his target is perched on the staircase, mostly out of sight. Giulia tries to provide as much cover as possible for the two of them while they simultaneously move toward the rear door.

They proceed one leg after the other, trying to dodge bullets; they have almost reached the rear door when Sherlock's phone starts ringing. Without losing sight of Fred's line of fire, he quickly takes the call, "John? This is not a good time," he huffs, squashing his full height behind the table which is now riddled by bullets.

Giulia stretches out her hand to lower the handle of the door and glowers at Sherlock: _why did he even pick up?_

"I don't care. I have something important to tell you _right now_ ," the doctor's voice replies anguished.

"Could you wait for a bit?" Holmes groans.

"No. Your life might be in danger..." he holds his breath as his ear distinctly distinguish the sound of shots fired on the other side of the line.

"You don't say," Sherlock ironically replies, rolling his eyes. He shoots twice in the direction of the stairs, before John's voice speaks again, "There was an email in your Inbox containing an old article about an explosion in an Italian Consulate..."

"I don't have time to work right now, John, “the detective interrupts him. “I'll think about it when I get home."

"No, you have to listen to me. Listen to me, _please._ According to the newspaper, one year ago, that explosion killed the Consul, his wife, and one of their two daughters whose smiley face is clearly visible in the picture beside the text,” John’s tone gets more alarmed by the second.

"It's interesting, I'll grant you that, but... "

"I have the picture in front of my eyes, Sherlock, and there is no doubt," John cuts him short. "It is also stated in the text: the girl was 22 years old and her name was Giulia. According to this article, Giulia is supposed to have..."

"Died one year ago," Sherlock completes the sentence, coming to a sudden halt while his blood runs cold.

A second later, a bullet pierces him.


	32. One last favour

Sherlock collapses to the ground, howling. As Giulia witnesses the shooting, her hands drop the wooden table, making it crash loudly on the floor. Yet, not a sound seems to reach her: a continuous ringing in her ears is all she is able to perceive in that instant. _She is in utter shock._

When another shot is fired, she is forcefully awakened from her trance and violently brought back to that frightful reality. In a moment of lucidity, she runs by his side, slides her hands under his armpits and heaves his torso up, dragging him across the threshold of the rear door with great effort.

She stares horrified at the crimson stain spreading across his chest. "Oh God, I didn't see it coming," she whines as fear and horror get hold of her, causing an unbearable tingling in her extremities. It feels as if she was detached from her own body; her hands are still gripping at Sherlock's clothes, but she has no perception of it. She has the impression that the whole world is spinning around her. _Is she about to faint again?_

"Neither did I," he grunts more annoyed than worried: unbeknownst to her, he is not referring to him being shot but to what he has just discovered about her past.

She takes his left arm and passes it over her shoulders, helping him stand up and walk unsteadily as fast and far away from the house as possible. They stumble while crawling on the cobbled path in the garden.

"Don't worry. We'll get to the hospital. You'll be fine," she states, starting to panic when they reach Mrs Hudson's car in the driveway. They take cover behind the car as Fred comes out of the front door and shoots at them, chipping off the car paint from one of the rear-view mirrors.

"Take these," he throws the car keys at her, and she catches that mid-air, too stunned to protest. Then she lowers her eyes on the foreign object in her hand and gives him a confused look.

"You want to take me to the hospital, don't you?" he implicitly points out the obvious: he is in no state to drive.

She nods rapidly realising all of a sudden what that means: _driving on the left side of the road, something she is not used to. She told him earlier; she joked about running into a tree, but not entirely._

She helps Sherlock climb in the passenger seat, then she slides in the driver place and starts the engine of the sports car, mumbling under her breath, "I can't do that. This the wrong side of the car _and_ the road."

At that moment, a bullet shatters the back window, and she screams at the top of her lungs, pushing her foot down on the gas pedal and making the car jerk in reverse out of the driveway in a cloud of gravel.

"Yes, you can. I'll lead you. Now breathe, put in the gear and drive as you would normally do. Just try to do everything the other way around," Sherlock encourages her as the car stops in the middle of the main road.

She exhales and does as instructed: they peel out, and the car springs forward in the direction of the highway. She holds tight onto the steering wheel, making her knuckles turn white. "It's complicated," she complains. "And the road sign we have just passed indicated that the nearest hospital is 30 miles away. I'm not sure I can go on for that long."

"Oh no!" Sherlock exclaims.

She turns towards him, alarmed, "What?"

He pokes his finger into the hole pierced by the bullet in his clothes. "This was my favourite coat," he whimpers.

She rolls her eyes, "You're so dramatic. If we both survive, I'll buy you another one."

He gives her a condescending look, "Do you have the slightest idea of how much it costs?"

She clears her throat, still concentrated on driving. "You know, I'm not a doctor, but I think you should save your breath at the moment," she snarls at him.

"Doctor…” he repeats and realises, “We should call John.”

She fishes her phone out of her pocket and speed dials him, as she mentally face-palms, _Phoning while driving: as if her driving style wasn't illegal enough already._

It rings endlessly, but he doesn't answer.

"Pick up! Please, pick up. Come on, John, I need you," she hisses at the mute line before leaving a message to the voicemail, "John, it's me, Giulia. I'm with Sherlock, he is... injured. Badly, I fear. We were at the town of the murder and are now on our way to the nearest hospital. Please come. Hurry up."

She ends the message and shoves her phone in her pocket placing both her hands on the wheel: _not much of an improvement, anyway._

"You're awful at communicating information," the detective smirks, trying to lessen the tension, but the slightest movement sends a wave of pain throughout his body, and he wails monstrously.

Whenever she hears him groan and suffer, her chest tightens, and she can hardly breathe. She steals a preoccupied glance at him and swallows hard, struggling to fight the numbness in her head at the sight of his desperate conditions. "It's alright, you're going to be okay," she whispers in a quivering voice.

"You're awful at reassuring, too. Also, this is the wrong side of the road," he mumbles feebly.

His voice is barely audible over the roar of the engine, and she frowns, expecting another insult, "What else is there?"

"You are on the wrong side of the road. This is not how you approach a roundabout in England. You should turn clockwise. Now, move to the left, for God's sake," he yells, staring in horror while they rush against traffic. Two cars honk furiously at them as they steer away from the racing car's trajectory.

Once out of the turnabout, she swerves violently, guiding the car in the correct lane, "Sorry, it's so difficult. My brain is playing against me."

After a few seconds of unusual silence, she comments ironically, "Don't you have a witty comeback to belittle my intelligence?"

She turns her head to Sherlock only to find him unconscious in his seat. Little does she know that he has just entered his mind palace.

* * *

** Inside Sherlock’s mind palace **

"Brother mine, what are you doing _here_?" a replica of Mycroft appears in front of him and contemptuously looks around the corridors of his mind palace.

Sherlock cringes at that figment of his imagination. "I'm dying, I need to find a solution," he affirms as if it was plainly obvious.

Mycroft sniggers, "Gosh, you always were the slow one. There is nothing you can do about it now. You can't find a way out of the pain: you are quite the expert on human bodies and death, you should know that much. Haven't you figured it out yet? Right now, all you need is a reason to stay, to live. Something to hold on to."

The detective flares his nostrils. _He hates to admit that his brother (or rather, the most rational part of his brain that he, more or less unconsciously, associates with his brother) is, in fact, right._

"Let me look for it, then," he pronounces, pushing that vision aside and rushing down the corridor. He desperately throws open a few doors, peeking inside. One of them leads to a random crime scene; nothing special, no particular case, just a crime scene like many others: this is his mental room dedicated to his beloved work. _He adores being a Consulting Detective, solving mysteries, feeding his restless brain with enigmas and riddles, putting Scotland Yard to shame. That's all very entertaining, but it is not enough. Not enough for him to stay._

He steps out of the room and bursts open another door. This time, he is catapulted in the middle of a street with an ongoing car chase. He instinctively smiles at the familiar tickling sensation at the end of his fingers. _Oh, how adrenaline pumps in his veins!_ But the rush of excitement washes away quickly as his eyes follow the cars heading to the riverbank. He gazes at the Thames, he looks around at Westminster, the Big Ben... That is the room devoted to his London: the battlefield only he sees when he travels across his hometown. _London: his favourite set to any decent crime_. He furrows his brow at that sight: _that is still not enough. To him, a city – even his city, is not worth the burden of surviving._

He reluctantly leaves that scene behind and heads toward a black, unmarked door. He carefully lowers the handle and steps into a room mostly plunged into darkness. In the middle, a candelabra sheds some tremulous light around. He rolls his eyes at his vivid imagination. _Theatrical and overdramatic; now, that is one hell of a room._

The dim glow of the candles casts vermilion shadows on the bare walls and a figure at the centre of the room. As Sherlock walks closer, the features of a well-known face emerge from the darkness: Jim Moriarty. The _'Napoleon of crime'_ is lying peacefully on a Roman triclinium while sipping champagne from a flute. When he sees Sherlock approaching, he smirks and raises his glass to him in a mocking salute.

Holmes raises a brow. _Theatrical, indeed. Still, what else could be expected from two dramatic personalities such theirs?_

Sherlock fixes his eyes on his enemy while circling around the triclinium. Moriarty holds his gaze and a mischievous grin never fades from his lips.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock finally talks.

Jim brings a hand over his heart, seemingly offended by his rhetorical question. "In your mind, you mean? Oh, She _rrr_ lock," he rolls the 'r' on his tongue lasciviously. "You know why. I am your nemesis, your greatest mystery. You might consciously think of me as a mere diversion to kill off boredom, but we both know the truth: you haven't defeated me, you haven't solved our dilemma. So you won't stop thinking about me. That's why you put me in your mind palace; the thought of our enthralling duel will keep haunting you until we meet again."

Sherlock slowly shakes his head, "You might be my greatest challenge, I'll give you that. And having to confront you, playing a game with you… it's enticing, but it's not good enough a reason to live."

As that realisation dawns on him, he turns around and marches out of the room, slamming the door behind his back and leaving that ghost of Moriarty with a desolate expression on his face.

Sherlock is in the corridors of his mind palace again, and he feels like he is suffocating. His whole body is in pain now. He starts gasping for air and takes his head in his hands, murmuring disconsolately, "Nothing. There is nothing of value in here. Nothing important enough to make it worth surviving for."

Mycroft appears again in front of him. _His brother: the image of his conscience, the most rational part of his brain – the one that keeps reasoning even when he is losing a lot of blood and spiralling out of control._

His brother looks down on him with his air of superiority, "Of course it isn't _here_ , brother dear. You will not find a reason to live in your cerebral, analytical mind; you would never allow such sentimental issues up here."

Sherlock raises a questioning look at him. Mycroft snorts annoyed by Sherlock's slowness, _which means that Sherlock is annoyed at himself and his lack of comprehension._

His brother prods him with the tip of his umbrella, "I'll ask my first question again. What are you doing _here_? You won't find a reason to live in your mind palace, you silly boy. All you need right now – your only reason to stay – is currently sitting next to you on a car that she doesn't know how to drive, on the verge of panic. Time to wake up, Sherlock."

* * *

He regains consciousness, blinking repeatedly as he is overwhelmed by a stabbing pain in his arm (in the same exact spot where Mycroft was poking him inside his mind palace): Giulia is painfully shaking his arm with one free hand, trying to wake him up, as she screams, "Sherlock! No, no, no! Wake up. Stay with me. Stay awake."

His eyes flutter open, and he groans, "Ouch. That hurts."

"I'm sorry, but I won't let you lose consciousness," she declares as her trembling hand clings to the steering wheel.

He takes some short, fast breaths, and asks, "How long have I been out?"

"Just a couple of minutes, but it looked like forever. Don't do it again, please," she begs and her voice breaks at the end. She turns to look at him, and they lock eyes. There are a thousand unspoken words between them, and it would just be wishful thinking if they truly believed that they could communicate everything through a one-second look.

She averts her gaze to pay attention to the road, but she isn't quick enough: Sherlock has noticed that she is misty-eyed. No matter how many times she clears her throat, she can't hide the fact that she is getting more choked up with each passing second.

She gulps and murmurs, "You can't close your eyes now. Stay with me. Try not to-"

"Die?" he talks over her and lifts a brow.

She glowers at him, "I was going to say _sleep_."

He frowns, "Yeah, death is a particular kind of sleep, quite a permanent one. Could you go a bit faster, please?"

She shifts to a higher gear, retorting, "I'm trying to, but this is entirely new to me. And, frankly, I'd like to avoid having us both killed in a car accident."

"I'll die anyway if you don't hurry," he protests and fixes his gaze on her, studying her every move.  
 _She is panicking but isn't losing her mind. She struggles to keep a cool head and dominate her emotions. She has definitely been trained to respond to emergencies, which unleashes a long streak of questions: Who drilled her and why? Is it the result of the time she spent with the British Secret Service? Was she really the daughter of an Italian diplomat? And if so, what truly happened one year ago? Did she fake her death? That seems improbable, given the fact that both her parents lost their lives in that explosion of the Consulate, as John said when reading parts of the newspaper article to him. The whole family could have faked it and survived, just like she did, but he knows that it isn't the case. She told him that her father is dead and it is likely that her mother died, too; she didn't look like she was lying: she would have had no interest in lying about that, anyway._

_Then, why was she the only survivor and how? Is she a threat, is she dangerous? There must be a good reason if she wants the whole world to believe that she died one year ago. So, ultimately, **who** is she?_

He stares at her unflinching expression; she passes a hand under her watery eyes and regains her composure. _She is determined to save him or at least attempt at it._

He whispers, "No matter what, no matter who you are: _right now_ I trust you."

Giulia turns her head to him and smiles weakly, "Good because I've just had a terrible idea."

She pushes her foot on the gas pedal while the car speeds up, rumbling. He furrows a brow and jests, "I thought you were ruling out the possibility of suicide."

At that moment, he notices a police car sitting by the side of the road a few metres ahead, as she replies, "Suicide: out of the question. Prison... still on the table."

Their sports car hurtles in front of the police car, which immediately turns on the flashing lights and starts chasing after them. Giulia checks the situation in the rear-view mirror and accelerates even further. The police pursue her until she suddenly hits the brakes and pulls over. She quickly turns off the engine as two policemen jump off and stride closer, commanding the driver to get out of the vehicle. She opens the car door and stands up slowly with her hands in the air, pleading, "Please, help me! There's a man in the passenger seat. He is wounded and in desperate need of medical assistance. I'm on my way to the hospital. You've got to help me."

One of the police officers comes menacingly near her, while the other approaches the left side of the car.

"You have far exceeded the speed limit," the first officer scowls at the girl.

"I know. I'm terribly sorry, but we need to hurry. He is dying. I was just trying to save his life,” she gestures towards her flatmate.

"She's telling the truth. This man is severely injured. He needs to reach the hospital immediately," the other policeman intervenes.

"Help him out of the car: we're giving them a lift," his partner affirms. " _You_ , inside the car," he gestures, pointing a finger at Giulia.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, thank you so much," she obeys, climbing in the backseat where a pale, suffering Sherlock takes place next to her.

He doesn't even have the strength to smile at her as he murmurs, "I'm almost impressed: you realised that these gentlemen would drive much better and faster than you, thus giving me one more chance at reaching the hospital in time. I must admit that it wasn't your most idiotic idea." That is his peculiar way of complimenting another human being.

She bites down on her lower lip, desperately trying not to break down in front of him. She remembers the basic rules of first aid and applies pressure to his wound, pressing her hands against his blood-stained shirt. Sherlock winces and stifles a cry. Then he places one of his hands on hers: she immediately feels how cold that is. _He is losing too much blood_ , she realises. His touch feels so foreign to her and yet somehow calming. _She wishes she didn't have to worry about stopping his blood flow. She wishes she could hold his hand and tell him that everything is going to be okay. But she is so hopelessly unsure..._

_Why are things always so messed up between them? Every time they touch, the odds are invariably against them; the circumstances are always desperate, like when he took her hand to help her lay down in Baker Street when she was about to faint, a few hours before. And now, when she is pushing her trembling hands against his chest to keep his life from slipping out of him._

"Sherlock, I've never asked you anything, not a single time. I never told you to shut up when you were annoying; I never complained about your violin sessions at 3 a.m.," she starts off, but he interrupts her, "I thought you loved listening to me playing."

She nods frantically. "I did. I _do_. And I want to hear your violin again and again, regardless of the hour, despite our neighbours. Well, I wouldn't argue with Mrs Hudson, though," she forces a smile, and he smirks, "Neither would I."

"Since I've always been so respectful and obliging, I think I have every right to ask something of you now,” she fixes her eyes in his.

He arches a brow, "Right now? Can't you wait for a more suitable moment?"

"No, _this_ is the moment. Please, _survive_. I never asked you anything, and just this once you can't let me down,” she squeezes his cold hand as if she was trying to ascertain that he is still real, still alive, next to her.

"I could have prepared you a cup of tea, you know, if you'd asked me," he jokes, trying to suppress a grimace of pain.

She fights against a lump in her throat and breathes out, "I'm asking this, instead. As a personal favour: stay."

At that moment, they stop in front of the ER, and the police officers rush out of the car and place Sherlock on a stretcher with the aid of some paramedics. She runs inside the hospital beside the stretcher, incapable of taking her eyes off him.

When the doctors come to a sudden halt, demanding her to leave him and stay in the waiting room, she bends over to give him one last look. Sherlock lifts a hand to caress her face streamed with tears and draws closer to her with great effort. His lips brush against her cheek as he whispers in her ear, "I told you, the Wizard of Oz was right: breakable hearts are so impractical."

When his stretcher darts through the glass doors of the surgical room, Giulia's eyes follow his curly head until the last moment. Then she lowers her gaze on her bloody hands and clothes.

As if she had just woken up from a confused dream only to sink into a real-life nightmare, she suddenly realizes that what she has on her hands is Sherlock's blood, and she eventually passes out on the hospital floor.

_This time there is no one there to stop it from happening; no talking about the periodic table, no ill-timed sarcasm, no clumsy sociopathic detective to hold her hand._

The last thing she can think about before she faints is that Sherlock is not by her side at that moment, and he might not be there ever again.

* * *

**Author's note:** _A huge Thank you to whoever took the time to read this story and leave kudos or comments: it means the world to me._

_Any kind of feedback (and constructive criticism as well) is highly appreciated._


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